


Watch Me, Watch You

by elefseus (oscillos)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Thoughts, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:06:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 109,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscillos/pseuds/elefseus
Summary: "What changed, Hank?""Was it you, or was it me?"Connor has a secret, and Hank is lonely.(Canon divergent: Connor cams, and wasn't sent to the DPD before the Revolution. Not a true AU.)(Hiatus)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would fight Cage with a monolith-sized blank script and a stale baguette if that's what it took, but I guess writing gay fanfiction is a good start.

A bead of sweat slowly made its way down Hank's forehead, unnoticed amid his disheveled curls and pensive, drawn brows. He couldn't believe he was doing this. His heart was hammering in his throat, his fingers itching across his keyboard without pressing any keys, unable to make a decision. Was this his life now? Had he gotten this desperate? Had doing things the old-fashioned way finally outlived its worth?

> _New Account_
> 
> _Username: twinkluver1985_
> 
> _Email: goodboysumo85@dmail.com_
> 
> _Password: ****************_
> 
> _> >Continue to Sign Up for access to streams, bookmarks, chat, and more! << _

For God's sake- he was a cop. Why the fuck should he hesitate? Everyone had to get their rocks off somehow. So what if he was a 53-year-old (arguably) washed-up Lieutenant, randomizing a username for a porn site on a weeknight... all because he had too many issues to go about taking care of it with someone real?

Aw, to hell with it.  

> _> > Sign Up_
> 
> _._
> 
> _._
> 
> _._
> 
> _Thank you for creating your account! An email has been sent to verify the following information. Enjoy your time at YP.TV!_
> 
> _Return to stream?_
> 
> _> >Yes_

-

An arm here, a leg there. Biocomponents were strewn out on the floor below him, wires reaching and stretched thin as they'd been torn apart. There's that blue shit- " _Thyrium_ ," he'd been told- painting the areas between, half-translucent and thick. The front of the male android's head was mostly intact, mouth hanging open in shock and eyes wide, looking almost like a doll with its skin deactivated. A white mask of blatant fear. Its owner was sprawled some several feet away, a single gunshot splattering the idiot's brains over the kitchenette. Red mixed with blue into a muddy, viscous brown.  
  
The coward's way out for a crime that just a few months ago wouldn't have been a crime at all.

"Really fucked it up, huh?" Gavin called from behind him, sounding a little too enthused about a crime scene, as usual. Hank tears his eyes from the revolver on the ground, grimacing.

"You ever heard'a the phrase, ' _Respect the dead,_ ' Reed?"

"Hey, y'know what?" Gavin leaned into Hank's personal space, a shit-eating grin peeling his lips, "When I see someone worthy of respect, I'll let you know."

"Well, fuck you too." He rolled his eyes, calling over his shoulder to the rest of the house, "I'm calling it, Chris."

Chris poked his head out from the bedroom, "Already?"

"Yeah, it's obvious," Hank pointed to the man, then the android. "Owner killed it for trying to leave, then himself when he realized how fucked he was. Open-and-shut."

It went without saying that the man couldn't legally be the android's owner anymore, but old habits died hard.

"How can you tell?" Chris glanced over the gruesome scene once again. Hank huffed, already on his way out— in more ways than one.

"Look at the wounds on the guy. The only thing on him is defense wounds from the android, no other retaliation. The gun had nothing to do with it... except," Hank cocked his finger like a gun, pointing to the side of his head. "A Get out of Jail Free card."

Ben frowned at the demonstration but said nothing, unable to argue an alternative.

They'd seen this before— people unable to cope with the liberation of their androids, proving their humanity in the ugliest of ways. Of course, there were new laws up on the docket every week about "android rights," ever since the uprising some months prior, but things never changed fast. People certainly don't. Hank especially.

"Now, If you'll excuse me..." Hank nodded with a jerk over his shoulder: it was quitting time, and there was a lonely bottle with his name on it.

If he got lucky, he'd pass out long before the image of that revolver crept into his mind's eye, or weighted his hand.

-

The next morning— no, afternoon, he didn't _do_ mornings— there were several more cases on Hank's desk. _Android_ cases. His burgeoning headache from his bi-weekly bender throbbed even harder. Ever since Fowler had put together an Android Crimes Task Force (a name that was a little too on the nose, even for Hank), and put him in charge, Hank's life had gone down the shitter more than he'd thought previously possible. Violence committed against androids and vice-versa had risen in spades since the so-called "revolution". More accurately, humanity's ugly perversions were coming to light more than ever.

Someone had to take care of it, and the DPD was at the heart of it... but that didn't mean it had to be _him_.

Except it _was_ his problem now, _specifically_ his, and it didn't look like that was going to change anytime soon. They were understaffed, most of the android officers having left once they'd gone "deviant" (now an offensive term, in itself). Detroit, even excluding the uprising of androids, was, well, Detroit. They were booked solid, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Rubbing the bunched-up nerves between his furrowed brows, Hank flipped through the case-files: another harassment, another assault, another murder. The ages and gender all varied, but the thing that ground his gears didn't— _androids_. Skimming the last case his eyes lock onto one section in particular, his stomach doing a nauseous flip.

> _[Victim(s):_
> 
> _Designation Unknown, AP700 #480 920 810. Status: Deactivated. Multiple fractures in chassis, cranium unit #4252 destroyed._
> 
> _David Brenner, Age 35 yrs. Status: Living. Broken wrist, left. Bruised ribs, facial laceration._
> 
> _._
> 
> _._
> 
> _._
> 
> _Avery Brenner, Age 9 yrs. Status: Deceased. Probable Cause: Strangulation._
> 
> _The plaintiff, D. Brenner, claims the deceased, A. Brenner, was attacked fatally by the deactivated AP700 model, designation unknown. Plaintiff claims self-defense in the destruction of AP700 model. The android is not available for reboot. D. Brenner non-custodial, ref #2039, subject: E. Brenner as custodial, contact #313-943...]_

Hank took a deep breath, closing his eyes.

...And slammed the folder onto the desk, rising to his feet in the same motion. He ignored the looks from other officers at their desks, some appearing nervous, and made a beeline straight for Fowler's office. He doesn't bother knocking. Doesn't care.

"Find someone else." Hank's vision swam without the grounding of his morning coffee, and with the booze from the night before. Liquid courage in a bottle.

Fowler looked up from his console, incredulity dawning on his expression.

"What?"

Hank took a step toward his desk, "I said, put someone else on the _ACTF_."

"Absolutely not." Fowler twisted his screen out of the way, leveling the lieutenant with a twitch of long-suffering frustration. Oh good, he had his attention now.

"An' why the fuck's that?" Hank guffawed, "There's gotta be someone better-"

Fowler snaps. "Get used to it. You want off this? Then you want off the force. This is how it's going to be, and you're going to have to take or leave it."

" _Fowler_ —" Hank's voice rose, now all but leaned over the captain's desk.

"Hank, don't make me add more pages to your disciplinary file— it's running on margins. You _know_ things have changed."

Hank jabbed his pointer finger into the hardwood desk, chest tight with anger. "Bullshit, that's the reason. You're going to have to do better than that."

The Captain crosses his hands behind his head, exasperated.

"Do I need to remind you that this is your job, Hank? Your duty?"

If he had the nerve to walk out, he might.

"My job is to deal with people," Another jab into the hardwood, "Not _androids_. Shit, you _know_ I hate it, Jeffrey!"

Fowler lowered his hands to the desk, a look of serious resignation on his face. Hank thought he might taste bile rising.

"You have my answer. Take it or leave it. Now get out," Fowler threw a gesture toward the glass door, "One of us has to do work around here."

Despite his frustration, he knew to push any farther wouldn't do anything but add an entry— a real one, this time— to his disciplinary file. Fuck, if he cared other than for the weight of the thing, the shame. Hank was on his way out, door ajar when Fowler called in a hushed tone from behind him.

"Listen, for what it's worth, Hank— I think you might need this."

Hank stalled, one foot out the door.

"What is it you think I need, exactly? Enlighten me." It was a jeer, all teeth.

They both knew what Fowler meant, and that's what rattled him about it. Androids, _Cole_. It wasn't a single android that drove him up the wall, or a group, or even the whole of them as a people. It was what androids meant as a symbol. Perfect in every way... Except where it mattered most, and when it had mattered most.

And now he was expected to bring justice to _and_ for them.

"A kick in the ass, maybe," Fowler finished loudly with blatant exasperation, the lieutenant gladly clipping the voice short when he closed the door behind him without looking back, rattling the glass-like material with the force of the motion.

Casting an eye over the room, he noticed there were quite a few heads turned his way. Hank hissed through his teeth in dismissal, heading back to his desk.

"Maybe he needs a hobby?" Tina Chen said quietly to Gavin in a hushed tone after Hank went by, probably not meaning for him to hear it, but he did anyway. Hank doesn't give it any merit, having gotten used to ignoring the bulk of what his coworkers said, both good and bad. Gavin's response, however, was clearly meant to be heard loud and clear:

"What he _needs_ is to get laid, but how that's going to happen now that the fuckbots are 'free'?" Gavin sneered, twitching his fingers into air-quotes, voice loud and clear, "I dunno. Seems like a lost cause to me."

...Yeah, fuck this. Hank grabbed his coat, his keys, and after heavy hesitation, one of the topmost files from the pile on his desk... just in case. He'd just gotten here and it was already a better time than any to head to the _Chicken Feed_. The truck still stood like a ragged, stubborn buoy amid his convoluted, revolution-torn Detroit.

-

Hank slid back into his car, stuffing the last bite of his burger into his mouth unceremoniously, already turning the ignition. The greasy meal had long gone cold in his car at least an hour before, forgotten amid his arrival to the location of the crime scene. The details had been muddy and middling at best, barely leaving enough details to go on even if he'd been giving it his all, which he wasn't sure he was. There's no point in his going back to the precinct today to report the zilch he'd sown, so he doesn't.

The drive home is lonely, but that was fine. Normal, even. He turns on the radio, blasting _Knights of the Black Death_ , and turns his eyes away from a huddle of snow-covered androids in a debris-covered inlet on Broadway, their yellow LED's jumping out amid the slate grey and white.

Hank cranked up the heat in his car, pulling his ratty scarf higher on his throat. It doesn't quite beat away the cold.

The jingle of his keys at the door draws the attention of one big, excited St Bernard, enthusiastic barks sounding from inside the house as he opens the door. Hank felt a little bit like he'd just come through the other side of a really crappy carwash, Sumo's barks increasing in volume the second he opened the door, a welcome sight.

"C'mon, Sumo, c'mon..." He chides, pushing the big, excited dog back with his knee as he shimmies through the door, careful to shut it before the animal can bust through it, no doubt to roll in the snow and leave him hobbling off after him in worry.

A ton of dog slobber, some kibble, and a somewhat soggy-tasting microwaved meal later, Hank slumped in front of his laptop in his den, ignoring that he should turn a light on because God knows he'll be getting a headache already from the whiskey he'd all but chugged with his TV dinner.

The two hadn't gone together at all, but that's just how you made do on this bitch of an earth.

He _should_ work on the file. Send in a report, cover his ass for tomorrow. Do something to show Fowler that he was trying, because on some level, Hank even going into work anymore was the ultimate proof of him trying.

He doesn't. Instead, Hank typed in a website that's more or less muscle memory by now and clicks at random.

> _"MILF BEGGING FOR XXX"_

Click. 

> _"FUCKING MY EX-WIFE (HD)"_

Scroll.

> _"TWINK SEDUCES BEAR HUNK"_

Click.

It all managed to get him hard well enough with a little elbow grease, but truthfully, tonight something was missing. Everything seemed so fake and overblown. Insincere. Impersonal. Gavin's words from earlier that day come to mind, which is a sure sign he was about to go soft because he fucking hated Gavin.

_"I dunno. Seems like a lost cause to me."_

He groaned in frustration. Maybe he needed to spice things up. Hank navigated one-handed to the "LIVE" tab of the website, a plethora of streams popping up, all labeled with a small tag to signal it was live. He clicked one at random again, startling when the stream abruptly began with the blaring sound of a woman moaning, playing it up for the chatroom that quickly scrolled past Hank's eyes. Comment after comment of others undeniably getting off on it, each more dogged and obscene than the last. He hurriedly clicked out, turned off by the plethora of (assumed) men mistyping in all caps in the chat, along with the loud buzz of he assumed at least five vibrators.

Hank's tired gaze landed on another title, a little farther down the page. 

> _"First Stream. Hi!"_

The thumbnail was of a man in formal wear from the neck-down, probably from when he'd started filming. Seemed tame enough. Hank clicked on it—

—only to be locked out by a member's only screen, telling him he was out of "free" clicks, and to make an account. Figured.

...But, you only lived once, right? Hank abstractly remembered the saying from his youth with a pang of melancholy and a little spite, punching in a burner email and randomizing a nickname to make an account. Yeah, he may be getting a little up there to be opening his first porn membership, but it was a free country.

One that was now free to both humans _and_ androids. 

> _> > Return to stream_

The stream connected, showing the torso of a man, fully clothed, leaning toward what is most likely the webcam he was recording with. The quality of the image was much better than the others he'd ever seen recordings of, clear to where he can make out the scattering of freckles over the bit of skin that shows through the undone top button of his white button-down shirt.

Hank swallowed, feeling himself stir in his hand when the man leaned down, exposing a sharp collarbone from beneath the droop of the shirt.

"'Hello!" The loud greeting came all too suddenly, the voice oddly lacking in inflection yet seeming friendly at the same time. Hank thinks he may have just had his first heart attack.

At that moment, he realized he was also currently the only person in the stream's chatroom.

"' _Twink Lover Nineteen-eighty-five'..._?" The strange voice continued appraisingly, prompting panic in Hank's chest (and a highly inconvenient surge of arousal) at being regarded so directly, with such a stupid screen name, to boot.

Hank exits out of the stream in record time, eyes wide in the dark of the room, in total silence save for the low buzz of the TV in the den behind him. He thinks about what he'd seen of the man on the stream, the freckles, the way the stranger's shirt lay over his chest.

He scrambles to plug in his earphones, (who else would even hear this, Sumo?) getting the wires tangled in the process but managing to win against the technology after a sizable effort, and then pauses, taking a deep breath.

It's only after a long, long moment of inner reflection and diatribes, and against his better judgment, that Hank opened the stream again, once more revealing what was visible of the man behind the screen, who immediately responded.

"You're back." The weird, but definitely male voice greeted, "Hi, I'm..."

The voice paused for a second.

"I'm ' _Coin-trick'_ , and this is my first 'stream.'" He chuckled strangely, probably at referencing his screen name, "And I suppose that makes _you_ my first viewer... Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really rusty going into prose again, please be gentle. :) Hope you enjoyed! I started this because I was inspired by a tweet Polymerandroid on twitter.


	2. Chapter 2

"Thank you."

Hank's free hand skidded over the surface of his laptop keyboard without typing anything. The tiny bit of decorum that still lurked inside of him— deep down— made him itch to say something in response, but ultimately the inevitable folly of the whole thing stopped him short.

He was just here to get off, so there was no point in entertaining anything else, right?

"I... would like to thank you, further, considering the nature of this stream," Coin-trick said slowly, and Hank didn't need to see his face to know he was thinking. About  _what_ , who knew.

The lieutenant's heart still sped up at the likely insinuation, fingers loosely stroking himself to keep in the game, admittedly expecting this to take a very pornographic turn.

His stomach lurched with a weird sort of anticipation, but more and more time passed without Coin-trick doing anything, instead appearing to toy with the second button of his shirt. Sometimes he was so stock-still that it appeared the stream had frozen.

Hank's brows furrowed. He almost reached for the touchpad, to see if the ancient laptop had just given out on him.

"I'm not sure what I should do, however, I'm sorry." Coin-trick says in that same, oddly blunt tone, though it got a shade softer when he continued, "This really  _is_  my first time doing this."

It should be a turn-off, someone so awkward, where every sentence sounded like a statement, rather than a conversation. Hank couldn't even see his face.

But it wasn't. The following awkward silence prompts him to finally do something other than lazily touch himself because clearly, that wasn't solving anything, prompting a feeling of discomfort instead of arousal.

> _twinkluver1985: relax_

Because, shit— wasn't the whole point of him watching this the immersion of it? That somewhere, right now, this person was more or less asking Hank what he should do. What he should do in the  _sexual sense_.

> _twinkluver1985: touch yourself?_  
>  _twinkluver1985: just start slow_

Hank's mouth went dry as he typed, feeling much the part of a dirty old man at this moment. The view count had gone up a few during the past several moments, but no one had spoken in the chat room yet, so it still felt like they were alone, the effect oddly...intimate.

It made him equal parts uneasy and on the edge of his seat.

Somewhere in the other room, Sumo was grumbling loudly in his sleep, but Hank was completely oblivious to the outside world the moment Coin-trick's hands splayed out on top of his shirt, just over his collarbone.

"Oh..." He sounded a little preoccupied, "Yes... I can do that."

The streamer slowly dragged his open palms over his shirt, one hand moving down, the other up. Coin-trick's right hand drifted up to run over his throat, moving out of view of the camera— maybe to wrap around his throat, or touch his face.

Hank felt his dick give a twitch in his hand at either possibility.

"Is this...right?" Coin-trick's left hand moved lower, onto his pec and over his ribs, feeling his way down. He had slender fingers, nails prim and well taken care of, but the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders let on that he was built, if lanky.

> _twinkluver1985: yes_

The movement pulled the streamer's buttoned shirt flush to his chest, and Hank's eyes focused on the strain of the topmost button, willing with every ounce of his mental energy for it to pop open and reveal more flesh than the small, pale triangle he could see now. It doesn't, but he imagines it for a second anyway.

> _twinkluver1985: take off your shit_

Fuck. Now the guy probably thought he was typing one-handed. It was the truth, after all.

> _twinkluver1985: shirt*?_

Coin-trick chuckled, undoubtedly at Hank's typo. The sound is light, but strange, just like the rest of the way he talked, but it wasn't so bad...clipped and to the point.

Along with something else Hank couldn't put his finger on.

"Okay." The man started to unbutton his shirt, leaning back in whatever chair he was sitting on, which in turn revealed more of his body to the camera.

Hank's gaze traveled up the strong column of his throat, where the view cut off, then back down to where his chest was slowly being revealed. The room felt like its temperature had risen a solid ten degrees, matching the surge of arousal at the sight. He palmed himself through it shamelessly.

Okay, there was  _some_  shame involved.

This guy was  _cut_. The quality of the stream— even on Hank's semi-potato of a laptop— couldn't hide the man's toned midsection, or where the rise of his pecs tucked firmly under his defined collarbone. What looked like freckles scattered over his ribs infrequently, landmarks that tugged Hank's gaze to and fro. His physique was lithe but undeniably solid.

Put simply, he was perfect.

Hank hadn't been this hard in months.

"It's a little strange I can't see any of you," The shirt was soon removed entirely, Coin-trick untucking it from his belt with a methodical jerk, slipping it off his shoulders, and folding it pristinely before placing it off-camera.

There were more than a dozen viewers, now. Random comments of an obscene nature filtered in at intervals, but they went ignored, Hank's eyes tethered to the boundaries of the stream only.

"...But I suppose that's what I was asking for, doing this." He stayed where he was instead of moving closer again, leaving more of himself on display as he resumed where he'd left off. The sight of defined hands moving down the newly revealed expanse of skin spawned the intrusive thought of Hank's own hands doing the same, exploring the planes of this stranger's picturesque body. Finding all the places where firm gave into soft.

It would never happen, but that's exactly why he was indulging in this fantasy.

Where the lieutenant's touches had previously been lazy and distracted, now came firm, slick turns of his wrist. The familiar sense of a something being wound tightly in his gut approached, tense and warm. He didn't let it stop him, and instead chased it, provoking it in the unique ways only someone familiar with his body could.

"I hope this is to your liking," Coin-trick's palms ran searchingly down the top of his legs and up again, bunching the material subtly over the crease of his thigh as they went, debauching his clean image. Hank squinted, desperately trying to make out if the man was hard, but the dark material of his pants hid the answer.

"I'm not sure I..."

Even riled up in the heat of things, Hank could register the hint of uncertainty that lingered in the back of his even voice, a hand trailing back up his bare torso.

Idly, he entertained the thought of ruffling up that hesitation, just as much as he wanted to smooth it down. Hank didn't have a thing for the inexperienced, by any measure— the age that was appropriate at had long passed him by— but there was no denying that every aspect of this was going firmly into his spank-bank for later.

"Oh."

The man behind his screen suddenly gave a full-body twitch, gasping. Hank had to place his free hand on the edge of the desk for support, fist tightening around himself.

Coin-trick's hand froze over where he'd just circled his solar plexus with his thumb, his opposite tightening around the top of one of his thighs. The motion had seemingly cracked something in the man's stiff-bodied facade, and when he pressed again, Hank heard it.

" _Ah_..."

A mere whisper of sound through his headphones, more of a voiced intake of breath— of unexpected discovery, the good kind— and it was enough to push him over the edge.

" _Shit_..." Gut clenching, Hank's vision blurred as the orgasm caught him by surprise, sharp and sudden. His fingers twitched over himself quickly, at once dirtying his hands.

Sagging back into his chair a moment later, he recognized on some lizard-brain level that Coin-trick had said something, but couldn't quite catch the words on a legible level for a long few seconds.

"Sorry, I... think that's all the time I have today."

He was back where he'd started, closer to the camera, face remaining hidden, with his hands placed neutrally in front of him.

"Thank you for watching, everyone."

It sounded contemplative, a little distracted at most. Hank might have found something weird about that, used to sniffing out the meaning hidden in perp's words, but right now, he was too damn blissed out and tired to care.

Didn't get much of a choice in it, either. The stream abruptly ended, leaving him alone in the dimly lit room, the weight and exhaustion of his day crashing into him as soon as he caught a glimpse of his haggard reflection in the now-dark screen.

Wiping his hands on his pants, Hank flicked off the forgotten television and went to bed, the warmth from his completion aiding his descent into sleep, but not the gnawing creep of his dreams, ever present.

Dreams of faceless men and disemboweled androids, then cold nights on the interstate. The screech of tires. His hands reaching for something that always slipped through his fingers like smoke, no matter how hard or desperately he reached for it, light and fleeting.

-

The next week brought two new bodies,  _android_  bodies, the circumstances of their "deaths" just as varied as the rest. Hank found it a little impressive how low the human death toll had been in response to the uprising so far, but the thought was morbid and indicative of something darker.

Staring down at the lifeless, inactive shell of the most recent android, Hank was conflicted. Every fiber of him still despised them, he assured himself, but he didn't need to  _like_  them to see how the cases they covered lately had changed. There were fewer crimes taking place in the androids' previous "homes," and more out on the street, flushing any probable cause that might have been argued in the past down the toilet.

 _Vengeful_ , that's what they were. Perhaps the realization was uncomfortable because he could understand having  _that_  taste in the back of his mouth— itching, just under his fingertips. It was the desperation to not have a way of life erased, stolen, whether it was for a just cause or not.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Hank frowned, brows wrinkling with the conflict. The androids couldn't really be alive in the same way he was, but on the flipside, peoples' reasons for deactivating them were by large petty, and selfish. Utterly human in every way, shape, and form.

Unfortunately, all of that meant that they didn't know how the hell to prevent them.

"That should do it, Lieutenant," The technician shuffled to her feet, depositing a myriad of tiny tools into her carry-all before turning to Hank. "We should be able to boot him up now, if only temporarily. I don't think he'll last long, but maybe someone from CyberLife could do better."

"Thanks, Chelsea, it's enough. We'll see if we can get any dirt on the perp, then be on our way."

Chelsea shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, obviously wanting to say something.

"Spit it out," Hank groaned, face wrinkling up with what he knew was coming.

"Sir, off the record, isn't this..."

" _Off the record_ , for now, yeah." Hank supplied firmly, fishing a recorder out of his pocket and setting it on the table across from the deactivated android. This was a grey area still, that's for sure, but if it panned out right... 

Maybe Fowler would only yell at him a little bit, and not a lot.

"Go ahead." He waves a hand for her to get a move on, pressing play on the recorder once Chelsea reached to flip the portable power supply on.

The android's body jerked in place like they'd been struck by lightning, coming to life before Hank's very eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, but it never got less unnerving.

The android opened its eyes, expression full of fear.

"Where am I?" Its voice was modulated, a mechanical burr, its synthetic skin growing then fading away rapidly. "Where is  _he_? Is he here?"

Human or android, it didn't matter— Hank could hear panic setting in when he heard it.

"You have to get him away from me, he—"

"Hey, hey." He tried to soothe, raising his hands to show his badge, and that he wasn't actively armed. "Listen to me. ' _He_ ' isn't here. You're..."

Hank paused.

" _Safe,"_ He decided, "I'm Hank Anderson, we're with the police. We're just trying to figure out who did this to you, alright? Can you tell me anything? What's your name?"

"It's— I'm... I'm Harvey," The android's eyes darted around the room, finally noticing the technician standing beside it, and by extension, the cords coming up to the back of his head. He slowly reached up to them, running blank and dulled fingertips over them. "What's wrong with me? Am I hurt?"

Snapping his fingers, the lieutenant tried to draw the android's attention back to him, leaning forward to speak quietly but quickly. He tried to be gentle, keep eye contact, despite the bile that rose in the back of his throat.

"You're safe now, you're okay," Hank repeats, exchanging a look with the now visibly uncomfortable technician, taking it as a signal that time was running out, "Now, can you tell me who did this to you? Or if he hurt anyone else?"

The mention of  _hurt_  triggered something primal within the android, its LED cycling yellow then red within a second, and he stood immediately. Or, he tried to. The movement sent him off-kilter, as one of its leg components had been badly mangled during the assault.

Hank jumped to his feet, ready for anything as the android began to shout, glancing around the interrogation room rapidly.

"I don't want to die— I don't!" The android cried, trying to jerk away from the cables leading to its neck. Its eyes were wild, then focused on Hank entreatingly. "Please, help me!"

Trying to show he was still unarmed and therefore not a threat, Hank raised his arms in front of him at the elbow, palms open and empty. Unfortunately, the android turned its head in a way that pulled at one of the wires connected to the back of its head, turning to see the scared expression on Chelsea's face.

"Get away from me—"

In a sudden movement, the android attempted to surge toward Hank instead, arms out, almost as if to bury itself against his chest for comfort. In doing so, the largest cable connected to the back of its head came undone, clattering to the floor.

The android collapsed onto the table in a lifeless heap, its pale, inactive fingertips brushing Hank's forearm as it fell.

Both the lieutenant and the technician exchanged a look, breathing hard from the adrenaline. Chelsea shook her head slowly. The android was gone.

Hank needed a drink.

-

More than a few, as it turned out.

It was one of those months where the days all ran together. Only his nightly habits really changed, and even those were a cycle— was it the whiskey or the gun that made it into his hands, tonight? One usually couldn't go very long without the other.

Hank had finished as much booze as he could stomach for the moment, so it was only natural he stood up to go to the drawer where the other was kept.

Reaching for the lacquered drawer's knob, his phone buzzed in his sweatpants pocket, catching him off guard. Squinting at it blearily, it revealed itself to be an auto-forwarded email notification.

> _> >Now Live: CoinTrick:_

Hank hesitated, teetering on one slipper-clad foot, before steadying himself against the wall. Scratching a hand across his beard, the lieutenant weighed his options— Russian Roulette, or a lonely jerk-off before bed?

Heading toward the living room (and his laptop) instead, he decided: Fuck it. 'Could always go back for the pistol later.

The streamer had run his broadcasts several times in the past few weeks, and Hank had admittedly watched most of them unless he was at work or only semi-conscious, the latter usually being booze-related. So help a guy, the "entertainment" had just so happened to coincide with his time off, and he liked the company.

...Albeit  _fictional_  company. Coin-trick was nothing more than a dirty television show you could phone in for, as far as Hank should be concerned. The streamer hadn't even been that dirty, either— he'd seen more balls in the first two seconds of the Gears game he'd played behind him for potential cover, and they were having a bad season.

Not that he was really hiding from anyone in his own damn home by playing it, but, you know.

Sometimes, things on the stream were so chaste he forgot for a second that he was on a porn site— but then Coin-trick started speaking those ridiculous, lilting words, alluding to something  _just_  beyond what he ever did, and that's about the time Hank shoved his hand down his pants. It was also when the tips started coming in— he couldn't blame them, either.

Hank signed in.

"Welcome back, Twink Lover Nineteen-eighty-five. I'm glad to see you again." Coin-trick greeted pleasantly, just as he always did,  _without fail_ , when Hank showed up.

It was kinda nice to be remembered, even if the circumstances were less than ideal.

"... As I was saying, I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I've noticed that, although my total viewership has risen steadily since my first broadcast, persistent viewership has dropped sixty-five-point-twenty-three percent. Might any of you have an idea why?"

Hank's stomach flipped a little with the slosh of alcohol while trying to understand just what the hell had just been asked, but he managed eventually. The chat had already reacted, slats of text rising rapidly across the side of his screen. The usual fare.

> _xxxbbcxxx: hey babyyy_  
>  _xxxbbcxxx: yyyy_  
>  _kasdh234: hott_  
>  _g.reedy69: tits or gtfo_

"It is certainly true that on average, my viewership rises substantially when I remove my shirt, G-dot-reedy-sixty-nine." Coin-trick surmised, those beautiful hands moving to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way, exposing pale flesh to the camera. It was a bit of a jab, and it made Hank smile absentmindedly, wishing he could see the other's face, not the first time he'd had that desire.

> _g.reedy69: fuck you_  
>  _g.reedy69: you can do a coin trick_  
>  _g.reedy69: ON_  
>  _g.reedy69: MY_  
>  _g.reedy69: DICK!!!!!!!!_  
>  _> > g.reedy69 has been kicked from the room by a moderator._

Now  _that_  made Hank snort.  
  
"...Nonetheless, that doesn't account for the drop overall." Coin-trick folded his hands in his lap, seeming much the docile listener instead of the extremely attractive, shirtless man currently broadcasting two inches from no less than three porn ads on Hank's screen. "Is there something else I should be doing?"

He had to be joking. It's unclear if it was the booze or the shock of it that got Hank typing. 

> _twinkluver1985: wh y dont you have some fun, yourself_  
>  _twinkluver1985: yknow_  
>  _twinkluver1985: thats prob why_

"By ' _have some fun_ ', you must mean something of the sexual nature."

The chat was going wild, but Hank's eyes were glued to the subtle twitch of Coin-trick's fingertips against each other, wondering if it was a restless habit and if he'd only missed it before.

"I have already come to the same conclusion. After all, it's the reason I am here, as well." 

Or was that a smile he heard in the streamer's voice?

Resting an elbow on the low desk, the lieutenant scooted in so he could rest his chin on the heel of his palm, vision blurring every now and again, a reminder, along with the on-and-off churn of his stomach, of how he'd gotten here.

Coin-trick was quiet for a moment. The twitch of his hands had stopped, Hank noticed.

"You've all been very patient..." Smoothly and without a wasted movement, the other began to unbuckle his belt. "I appreciate it immensely."

He drew the leather through the loops of his pants in a single, slow movement, the slide of both materials together audible.

"Why don't we have some ' _fun_ '?"

Hank's face slipped off his hand, nearly sending him face-planting into his desk.

Oh, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta, sorry for any errors! :'3 hmu at rk69420 on twit if you wanna yell about fictional sad millennial men with me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably goes without saying given canon, but just in case anyone needs a heads-up: this fic will continue to discuss Hank's self-destructive mental state on/off, though it's not the main focus.

Hank isn't sure he would call this fun, even if he's the one who technically suggested it to begin with. When he thought of "fun," what usually came to mind was something carefree, and if not easy, at least something that wasn't difficult or unpleasant. Fun was puppies and kittens, leaving work early, or a night out. For Hank, fun was... well, playing with Sumo, maybe. It was hard to define for him nowadays— he just knew when it _wasn't_.

No, this wasn't fun. It was _torture_.

Coin-trick seemed to have the patience of a saint: all slow, yet decisive movements, from the drag of his slacks down his hips, exposing pale, toned thighs, to the elegant arch of his iliac crest when he hooked a thumb under his plain boxer briefs, serving to draw all eyes downward to follow the new stripe of revealed skin.

Inversely, Hank had no patience at all. The contrast between the black material and the seemingly flawless surface hidden beneath was driving him crazy, inhibitions already lowered from the booze, let alone with the influence of an infinitely hotter, more built, and younger man who'd recognized his basic existence mere moments before.

Needless to say, he was hard. This time, Hank couldn't feel shameful at all.

"I think I have a pretty good idea of what you'd all like to see," Coin-trick pulled his legs out of his pants entirely, settling a little lower on the couch in view behind him. Hank's eyes flicked to the man's Adam's apple now in view, then back down to where Coin-trick had drawn his legs up onto the furniture, revealing the back of his lightly muscled thighs just behind where his knees were now pressed together.

Tunnel-vision seized the lieutenant, gaze settling firmly on what he could see of the curve of Coin-trick's ass through his underwear, and the bulge between his legs. The color of the garment and the angle made it difficult to tell if he was aroused, but there was definitely something impressive _enough_ cloaked under it.

A slight shift of his pelvis to the side on the other man's part, and Hank's hand tightened severely on the edge of his desk. This time it wasn't to stop himself from falling. Yeah, he was packing.

"—But please," Coin-trick's almost chillingly even voice came from a little farther away because of the change in position, still startling Hank out of his arousal-addled observation, "Tell me what it is you'd enjoy the most... I'm interested in learning what you all find most arousing."

Hank found it hard to believe anything he could do at this point _wouldn't_ be arousing, but it was still an amusingly out of place question, given that the chat seemed to be eating right out of Coin-trick's hand.

Drawn to the visible contraction of abdominal muscles when the streamer slid a little farther down the couch, his legs finally parting to reveal the swell of his crotch, Hank thought for a second that there was finally a hint of indecision in the drift of Coin-trick's touches. That, or he was just a dirty old man extrapolating. 

He ate up the sight anyway— the dance of those fingers back and forth on the line between teasing and hesitation, over his spread thighs and skirting the hem of his boxers and around his package without directly touching himself.

"What variety," Amusement seeped into Coin-trick's voice, "It's highly probable that any one of these suggestions would satisfy both my conditions and yours."

Glancing at the chat for a brief moment, it wasn't surprising to find it full of "suggestions," most of them crudely phrased. Hank couldn't feign the slightest innocence to their vulgarity, though— almost every one of them sparked a twitch of arousal at the idea of Coin-trick taking them to heart.

"Why don't I combine several of the reoccurring themes?"

There's a smile in his voice, and Hank's breath catches as Coin-trick shifts to the side to slide an open palm over himself.

"Is this what you want?"

The chat answers unanimously, but Hank didn't need to look to confirm that. He won't look, because he's too busy watching the slow, steady movement of the man's hand, his own semi-unconsciously mimicking it. If it was unclear before, it wasn't any longer— the shift of Coin-trick's hand over his boxers serves to define the arousal pressing beneath the material, leaving no room for question.

A mere ninety-seconds had shifted the stream in an entirely different direction, and there wasn't any turning it back— not that Hank would want it to, ravenously eating up the sight even in his inebriated state.

Coin-trick is notably silent in the following moments with the occasional comment on something in the chat, but his hand doesn't cease its careful, caressive movements, defined fingertips bright against the dark fabric of his briefs as he strokes himself through them.

Hank's gaze trails up and down the other's body for reasons entirely unobservant as he grips himself in an aborted attempted to try not to thrust into his own hand, his other typing in the chat one-handed. 

> _> > twinkluver1985: take them off?_

Abstractly, he wishes he could see Coin-trick's face. The lieutenant was a good tell— but not good enough, unable to tell much of anything from the stillness of the rest of the streamer's body, only gaining insight from the minute twitch of his free hand against his bare thigh.

"I understand. You must want to see my penis."

Hank snorts.

The words are unhurried but immediate, unaffected, with a hint of amusement. He couldn't help but wonder who the hell taught this guy to talk dirty, because they'd sure missed the mark. It doesn't turn him on any more, or less.

"Twink Lover Nineteen-eighty-five," Coin-trick shifts down to the edge of the couch, his seemingly flawless body folding forward to reach out and scoot the camera closer, aiming it lower to get a better look at where his hand was pressed.

Hank's heart hammers in his chest at being acknowledged despite himself and his dumbass username. The adjusted angle and closer view revealed more of Coin-trick's body—smooth, even skin, scattered with freckles, but more than that, the tuck of his frame forward had brought his jaw into view.

His mouth. His lips, quirked into the slightest hint of a strange, crooked smile.

"For you— my first viewer— I might consider."

Coin-trick's hand paused, wrapped halfway around himself through his boxers. Hank's eyes might as well have burnt a hole in them, for all he was staring, wondering if those freckles descended downward, but it didn't gain him anything for the effort.

"But, I must refuse," He moved again, dragging his fingers tightly and neatly up his clothed shaft, "...And personally, I find this stimulating enough already. Don't you?"

Fuck, it was. As much as he might want to assert otherwise, the heaviness of Hank's dick in his slick fist left no room for discussion. This is about the point where he probably shouldn't have been doing this drunk because Drunk-Hank made bad decisions... like flirting with cam boys who were in all likelihood almost half his age.

> _> > twinkluver1985: not about to argue, gorgeous_

Come to think of it, Sober-Hank made just as many.

"Your patience is appreciated," It may have been addressed to the stream as a whole because there were a few _extremely active_ viewers in the chat, but it felt like it was for him, with the way Coin-trick's lips twitched. "I hope you can still take pleasure in how much I'm enjoying your company."

With that, Coin-trick resumed his touches at an almost ardent pace, palm rubbing over the taut fabric in full, strong motions. Hank soaked in the way the other's knuckles stood out when he formed a half-fist, the sometimes-awkward angles he held his arm at to stroke at different angles, each shameless in their exploration, but especially that he stayed right where he was.

Where Hank could see his lips part when his hand started moving in faster, shorter jerks, just like his own was. The briefest flash of a pink tongue behind white, even teeth. Coin-trick's hips shifting just so into his hand, proof that for however stoic the man appeared, he damn well _felt it_.

"There-" Coin-trick said suddenly, like he'd been searching for and discovered something again at long last. Quiet, but fast. Hank almost missed it with his own groan, fingers sweeping tightly over the head of his cock.

"Fuck," Hank swore under his breath, bucking up into his palm with a strained sound as Coin-trick gave a brief, full-body shiver.

Though the movement was small and subdued, in the scheme of his previous stillness combined with Hank's literal profession being _reading people_ , something ingrained even in his boozed-up state of mind, it's more than enough to set him off.

Especially when Coin-trick's soft sound of admission trailed off into the faintest of laughs.

Hank is panting. He's vaguely aware of the slickness now coating his palm, and how sticky his hair feels where it lays askew on his forehead. The afterglow of his orgasm mixes with the layoff of the whiskey and another long day, all of the former hitting him at once, like a freight train would hit a sack of feathers. Hank would be willing to bet he looks similar to it, too.

"That was... pleasant."

Coin-trick sat up, raising his hand and seeming to inspect it— not that Hank could see his face. Then, without a hint of shyness, he spread his fingers for the camera, the gloss of something undeniable spreading between them thinly as he did so. Arousal flutters in Hank's gut at the sight, even if he was already spent.

"—If somewhat messy."

"Yeah, why don't you join the club, 'pretty bastard," Hank muttered to himself in response.

"I'd like to know... was that satisfactory for you all?" Coin-trick paused, probably to let the chat respond. Evidently, he liked what he saw, because that strange smile was back again, just a tilt to one side of his mouth.

"I'm...pleased you liked it. I'm going to end the broadcast now, but I hope to see several of you back again, next time."

Lethargy weighed heavy on the lieutenant, and he doesn't reach for the laptop's keyboard fast enough.

"Thank you for your company," Coin-trick reached toward the camera, "Good night."

Hank got one last look at that stilted smile before the stream cut out, its mode immediately switching to _OFFLINE_.

He stared at the black screen for a couple seconds, even going as far as to stand, stretch, groan, and turn toward the rest of his living room. It was dead quiet other than Sumo's snores from the kitchen, and some neighbor leaving for their graveyard shift outside, a distant hum of a car starting up.

Hank turns back, typing a single word into the rapidly emptying chat before snapping the machine closed.

> _> > twinkluver1985: thanks_

Crawling into bed without so much as setting an alarm, let alone brushing his teeth, Hank sleeps in a way that almost resembled "soundly," dreaming of nothing; not dismembered android bodies, nor faceless men. The revolver left in its drawer. 

For tonight, at least, it could stay lonely.

 

-

 

When Hank walked into in the precinct the next afternoon, half a burnt-tasting coffee in hand, he could immediately tell the day was going to be a real pile of shit. Walking into the room had been like walking knowingly into quicksand— just because you saw it, knew what it was, and that _if you took that next step_ , _something was going to happen_... it didn't make it any less avoidable.

You could cut the tension in the Central Station with a knife. It was clear in everyone's postures— stiff, on edge, like they were ready to take flight on a moment's notice— that something had gone down, and wasn't done with them yet. Hank had shown up just in time for the encore, lucky him.

As always, it was clearest with Gavin Reed. For one, his feet weren't up on his desk, so he was either afraid of adding fuel to someone's fire, or he was preoccupied with something. Next, the shit-eating grin and snide comments he might have previously offered Hank upon his arrival were completely disregarded— Gavin didn't even seem to notice Hank was there, instead glaring down at a collection of open manila folders on his desk.

Make no mistake-he still looked ready to bust a blood vessel, just in a different way from the usual.

Hank had two options: he could face whatever was going into head-on, or hide like a coward.

(Of course, there was always the third option: do a heel turn and go right back home, or better yet, to _Jimmy's_.)

"Alright, Reed, out with it," Hank elects to face it head on, tapping a finger on Gavin's desk, immediately drawing a furious look from the detective. "What's gotten up everyone's asses?"

"—'The fuck?"

Ah, there it is. It isn't that he cares what Gavin thinks— just that Hank knows he'll answer straight and to the point entirely unintentionally, even if he added a few expletives in.

"What the hell do you think? Another tin can showed up dead. Fowler's pissed."

Gavin's eyes are bloodshot, the red muddying his already dark expression. Hank hopes his own expression is at least half as hateful as he feels about the conversation already, even being the one to the start it.

"'Seems to happen a lot these days," Figured. It was just their luck (and the android's misfortune). Satisfied with the explanation, he's ready to go back to his desk, dismissing the detective with a wave, "Almost like there was an android revolution or something."

Gavin was not so easily satisfied.

"That's not— hey, don't think _you're_ not part of this," He hisses, both of his hands balling into fists over the messily piled paperwork on his desk. "This shit is at least half your fault— Nah, make that _all_."

Hank makes a face. "An' how do you figure that?"

"If you were payin' more attention to your job than the bottom of a bottle maybe I wouldn't have to tell you, old man."

It's probably clear to everyone in their uncomfortably immediate vicinity that the informative part of this conversation was firmly over.

"Oh, did mommy forget to give you your bottle this morning, Reed?" Hank's sardonic tone and scowl firmly cemented it. "That's just too bad...you sure could use a pacifier."

Gavin jumps to his feet, and for a second, Hank is sure he's about to get socked in the face— it wouldn't be for the first time, either.

"That's enough!" Fowler's voice suddenly barks behind them, effectively deafening the exchange. They both turn toward him, but where it might quiet Hank for a second, it doesn't deter the detective at all, his voice loud and defiant in the quiet station.

"It's true and you _know_ it."

"Reed, shut your damn mouth," Jeffrey then jabs a finger in Hank's direction immediately, who hadn't even had a chance to speak. "—You, too, Anderson."

"Detective Reed is right about one thing, and it's that another android is dead," Jeffrey took a step closer, crossing his hands behind his back, probably to stop himself from strangling the both of them, his brows drawn together in a mixture of serious displeasure. "But not just any android— this one had direct ties to that uprising."

Well, shit.

"This is big, Lieutenant. Perkins is already riding my ass at the FBI, asking if there's a greater risk to the population— human, or android— and whether Detroit PD is really giving it their all. He's _already_ threatening to intervene, and if he does, if there's _any way_ these are connected..."

The rest went without saying: it would fall on Hank. Hank, head of a department he hadn't wanted to touch, to begin with, but the head of it nonetheless. Anger bloomed in his chest for the connotation he was purposely missing details, but also some sense of shame at the self-doubt that rose with it.

Maybe he was missing something. Maybe he just wasn't good enough anymore to see it.

"I want _proof_. If they're not connected, give me hard proof, something I can show Perkins, convince him that this is a _public relations_ problem," He enunciated with clenched fingers, "-Not an "us" problem."

Hank leveled a dark glare at the captain, voice low, but strong. "'You sayin' I can't do my job, _Jeffrey_?"

Jeffrey shook his head, cutting that thought off with a sweeping motion of his hand.

"Can it, Hank, 'cause right now, I'm not convinced, either. There's one thing for sure, and that's that you don't want Perkins' guys here, and neither do I."

"Captain—" Gavin starts, looking somewhere a step closer to pleased, yet still highly uncomfortable.

"Don't think you're off the hook, either. Go through your cases and compare details. Scrutinize _everything_ ," Jeffrey projects his voice, making it clear that he knows how many ears are listening in on the confrontation, "I want _everyone_ _else_ to do the same. I want an answer for him— but it has to be the truth."

The silence that ensued was more than enough to confirm Jeffrey had gotten his point across. Everyone want back to work, or at least tried to look like it.

 

-

 

Settling in his old beater of a car with a tired groan, Hank turned the ignition and blinked rapidly, trying to clear his dry, weary eyes. His head was pounding, the aftereffects of going to work with and then trying to ignore a hangover throbbing possibly secondary to the effect of a long, tiresome day of case files. He'd lost track of the amount of warmed-over coffee he'd consumed from the break room, in addition to the dregs left in various paper cups over his desk as he gradually forgot about each until they were cold.

Despite how sour he felt about the whole ordeal, Hank had tried. He really had. He'd spent the greater part of the day and some of the evening going over every one of his android cases— and a few others', too— in search for any hint of similarities beyond just the concept of android-violence. He'd even scribbled notes for later on a napkin at _The_ _Chicken Feed_ while he'd scarfed down a burger some hours before.

It didn't feel like it had made much of a difference, though. The cases were plentiful in reasons each of the crimes could have taken place, and although there were _some_ similarities between a few of them, it was hard to pinpoint whether it was truly related or just a coincidence. To top it off, evidence relating to the existence of android involvement was nearly impossible to rule out entirely, because even if Hank gave it the ole' college try, there was only so much he could perceive as a human when it came to androids. Maybe they could have used one of their own kind before, but they just didn't have the man(android)power for it after the resistance had liberated their force.

It was only when he'd found himself seriously (instead of idly) entertaining the idea of dumping an entire cup of hot coffee on Gavin (who'd spent the day working, but also bitching _very_ _loudly_ to Tina Chen from his desk,) that Hank had decided to check out for the day.

So, here he was, exactly where he'd been god knows how many days before. Except for this time, there was the looming idea of Perkins shoving his way into the station— and no matter which way it turned, there couldn't be a good outcome out of it. The DPD was already being discredited enough as it was with protecting and serving androids as well as humans, and a big show of the FBI waltzing in to clean up their mess would only complicate it going forward.

Hank dragged a hand over his beard, the hairs scratching against his palm. He needed to shave, but he knew he wouldn't. He turns onto his street, parking and approaching the telltale sound of Sumo excitedly waiting by the door with little cognizance.

Fuck. What if there _was_ something he'd missed? Some common thread of evidence telling that this _wasn't_ just the ugliness of humanity showing its teeth in the face of the uprising, but something worse. Something that led to a specific person or specific people. Something he was missing because it was _him_  doing the looking.

It wasn't only that repercussions would be on him if things went bad at the precinct. It wasn't a matter of face. He'd lost that already, and he wouldn't necessarily bat an eye at losing it again, however much he had left. It was the concept of lives on his shoulders. Human lives. Androids, too, if you thought them to be alive, which Hank isn't sure he did. What if they'd been hanging off of him this whole time, and without realizing, without _caring_ to realize, he'd simply brushed them off collectively to meet their demise?

Closing the door behind him with an absentminded scratch behind Sumo's ears, Hank's thoughts trail back to Avery Brenner, one of the victims of a prior case.

Nine years old, deceased. Cause of death: strangulation. The evidence had pointed to the android initially, but more heavily toward the father, a frame-job. Someone else had taken the case after he'd thrown a fit about the Android Crimes Taskforce position, so his memory of how it turned out was hazy, and when it came down to it, the android was dead, anyway.

Were there more Averys out there?

...More Coles?

Hank clenched a fist until he was sure his nails had broken skin, trying to bring warmth back to it: cold had weaseled its way into his bones in an instant.

He breathed in through his nose, breathed out through his mouth, did it again. Tried to collect himself, then didn't.

Moving without thinking, he finds the Black Lamb, throwing a glass of it back with the practice of a showman. He pours some extra kibble in a bowl for Sumo, rubs his face all over ("Good boy, good boy,") and takes the bottle of scotch with him to the living room— might as well.

Slumping in front of his laptop, his wallet, phone, keys, and the booze deposited on its scuffed surface, Hank picked up the small framed picture of Cole he'd set there the day previous during a similar state. He turns it over in his hands, first as an object, then as a memorial, then an active memory. Minutes pass, he takes another swig straight out of the bottle.

His phone beeps at some point during. Hank sees numbly that it's another notification from his email— Coin-trick had started a stream. It's kind of funny at a time like this, and Hank chuckles to himself with a dark sort of humor, opening his computer (left on that very page from the night before), watching it idly without really processing anything that was going on, at first.

"— As I was saying... I wanted to try something a little different today, everyone."

Hank takes another drink from the bottle, then rises and retrieves his revolver from its lonely drawer. He sets it down in front of the laptop, Coin-trick's words filtering in from his laptop's speakers, drawing Hank's hollow gaze back to it.

"I'd like to take advantage of one of the more specific features this website facilitates— you may have seen it referred to as a ' _private session_ '. It would be something of an online communication between just myself and one other for a certain period of time, at a later date."

He must not be drunk yet, because Coin-trick's voice sounds too clear. Too real.

"Although I'm certain I can fulfill some aspect of the purchaser's expectations, I remain uncertain as to how successful it will be for my own enjoyment. As such, I'm only opening a single appointment for the time being."

Hank sits, one hand going for the bottle of Black Lamb, the other thumbing the handle of the revolver place in front of him, eyes flicking back and forth between the weapon and the computer screen.

"Of course, you're welcome to ignore this endeavor if it doesn't interest you. However, if you'd like company..." Coin-trick's voice dips a little lower, more soft as he regards the camera, face hidden as always. "I hope you can join me."

It was an invitation, but also a promise.

Hank is entering his credit card information into the associated window before he can even think to stop himself.

It's only after he presses 'enter' and is greeted with a receipt screen that recognition of just what he's paid for creeps into his awareness.

Blinking, he closes the laptop suddenly while Coin-trick is mid-sentence, pushing it away.

He almost laughs. It doesn't matter, anyway. None of it really mattered.

Hank picks up the revolver, spinning the single bullet in its chamber, once, then twice before raising it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to bud @eruemcee, it's her birthday! 8D I implore you to check out her DBH fanart on twitter. It's the reason I got into Hankcon to begin with! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLD ON TO YA' BUTTS.

When Hank finally awakened, several things became very clear all at once.

First, his head was killing him. The light that seeped in through the red of his eyelids felt like a myriad of icepicks slamming straight into his skull, filling him with a sense of dizziness and also lethargy, the push-pull of that particular sensory conflict making him nauseous. 

On that note— Second, his stomach was in a similar state as his head. Probably the aftereffects of stuffing himself full of whiskey in the place of dinner, if he really cared to guess, but he didn't, and wouldn't have needed to, anyway.

Third: his right hand was wet. 

Wait. Why was his hand wet?

Opening his eyes despite the instantly worsening response from his headache, Hank could immediately confirm the mystery source of wetness: Sumo was licking his hand, leaning over him with an up-close expression that, if he had to put a finger on it, was probably dog-language for "confused".

He bats away the dog with an exaggerated but _very_ genuine groan, hands scrambling against the hardwood-laminate of his living room for purchase in pulling himself into a sitting position, and rubbed his crusty-feeling eyes (whether from bad 'sleep' or tears, who knew) while trying to ignore the distinct sticky feeling on his face. It was either previous attempts by Sumo to wake him up, whiskey, or vomit. All were equally believable, so he doesn't bother trying to figure out the real answer.

Hank looked around from where he was sat on the floor, assessing the damage. 

Surprisingly, it was only his "usual," for the most part: obviously, he'd ended up on the floor at some point, and so had some of the whiskey that was spilled beside him, but that wasn't too out of the ordinary. From where he was sat he could see Cole's photo face down and teetering on the edge of his desk— instantly, he reached out and pushed it fully onto the furniture so it wouldn't fall, fingertips lingering before pulling back. He'd left the TV on, or rather he'd _turned_ it on at some point, _then_ left it on. One of his socks was pulled halfway off his foot for reasons he couldn't explain.

The digital clock built into his cable box read 1:26 PM. It is what it is.

Sumo's wet nose nuzzling into his upper arm drew Hank back to reality (or some semblance of it), and a quick glance confirmed that the dog had already eaten all the extra kibble he vaguely remembered pouring the night before. Figures, the mutt.

"Okay, you unruly beast. I get it," Hank wheezes, hauling himself up with a pat of Sumo's snout despite every ounce of his being telling him to stay on the floor, preferably permanently. "I'm up, I'm up."

The light coming through the thin material of his blinds glinted off something out of the corner of his eye. It was his revolver, still on his desk in front of his laptop. Hank's stomach gave a lurch, but it wasn't out of surprise, nor even shame. Those two had long passed.

No, what he felt was _disappointment._ Another night he hadn't been able to beat the odds.

 

-

 

Hank manages to worm his way into the night shift in order to waylay some of the inevitable looks at his especially-late arrival.

He knows he looks like shit even more than usual, so it's a small blessing that he doesn't have to see some of the same crew from the showdown— if you could even call it that— with Fowler the day previous, but truthfully, it's the smallest of his mental justifications. Mostly, it was because people were by nature prone to being a tiny bit quieter just by the time of day, despite the obvious fact that the station was up and running 24/7.

Not that he thought many people were going to want to chat him up. Outside of the few folks he had to interact with on a need-basis, many had started to avoid him long ago. He didn't care why, so it didn't matter if he knew the exact reason or not. Aided by several cups of coffee, Hank pours over the physical hard copies of his reports alongside those of the most recent killing until he can't any longer, leaning back in his chair with a tired sigh.

It was a way to pass the time, at least.

His phone started blinking, drawing him out of his thoughts. So help him, if this was Fowler taking a break from his family just to chew him out... Hank brought up the notification while he stole another sip of coffee, making a face when he discovered it was already cold because he'd grabbed the wrong cup.

That couldn't beat the face he pulled when he read the notification on his phone, though.

> _ >> YP.tv: 1 New Private Message _
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Private Session_
> 
> _Preview: Hello! I'm..._

Hank couldn't even finish reading the preview text before he had to throw his phone down, casting a cursory glance around the station to see if anyone noticed. No one had, of course, but the paranoia seized him anyway in a manner that outright startled him.

While he had previously been very successful in pretending it had never happened— just some delusional thing he'd imagined doing in a depressive state (wouldn't be the first time), something he might have been able to go through with if he'd possessed a little more initiative, or a few years earlier, he hadn't gone looking for proof, either. This was it.

But why was he ashamed? That was why he'd been avoiding the thought since the second he'd awoken from his whiskey haze, after all. Plenty of reasons quickly supplied themselves. _Local old man is desperate enough to buy the company of a younger man_ ranks high among them.

It was almost comical, like something Gavin would make up just to get a rise out of him. But this time, it was real.

The lieutenant thinks to grab his phone and get it over with, now that he's certain no one is looking, but his hand stops short. Instead, it closes it into a fist and Hank pushes the phone behind his monitor, out of sight, out of mind. If he was going to get through the last of the files scattered over his desk, it would be by pretending everything was just peachy.

In lieu of that, Hank counted down through the manila folders stacked untidily in front of him, a mental tally of what he'd done in the back of his mind, but mostly, what he had to do before he could _leave_. A countdown: _Just two more,_ then, _just one more._

A mantra to get him through the day, then hours, then minutes.

He tried to focus on the rough texture of the folders against his thumb as he flipped through them, eyes straining over text and photo evidence for something, anything that might connect the murders, but always arrived back at the same, sullen standpoint.

There was nothing connecting them. He couldn't find _anything_. There were crimes of passion, and hate, or a mix between the both, jealousy and entitlement and many so very _ugly,_ and in that way, completely human. But they were all markedly different, sharing themes the way a genre of movies might, while the innards were entirely different beasts. Different scripts executed by different actors. Hank put his face in his hands.

Sometime later, as the last of the early-nighters left their posts to make room for the real graveyard shift to come in, Hank receives another notification that Coin-trick had begun a broadcast, the stream title friendly and welcoming. He turns his phone off.

 

-

 

It takes Hank a few beers at Jimmy's the next night to work up the pluck to open the message, a brisk walk home (for him, anyway) in the snow serving to chase off the heat of embarrassment, but also curiosity that surfaced every time the lieutenant caught himself thinking about it.

It was just a message, stop being stupid.

It was just a message... from an attractive younger man he had paid online under the pretense of digital sexual favors and then ghosted, stop being _stupid, Hank_.

Fuck. Hank sits wide-legged in front of his laptop, opening the damn message. 

> _> > Private Message _
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Private Session_

_[ Hello! I'm sending you this private message with regard to the private session you purchased through the YP.TV Marketplace. I have probably complicated this more than you may be accustomed to by not specifying a date and time in advance to your purchase. I apologize._

_When would be a good date and time for you for our session, twinkluver1985? Do you have any preferences for what I am to wear? Is there something I should call you? Is..._ ]

_..._ The message trailed off into a multitude of questions at such specific and blindsiding levels that Hank's head felt like it was about to spin right off his shoulders. He didn't bother reading much past the initial question— if he did, the chances of him ever responding were very low. 

> _> >From User: twinkluver1985_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Private Session_

[ _no need to be sorry, it's my fault. i don't normally do this so i didn't know how to respond, it's kind of weird for me because of how_

Hank stops typing, rereads it, and then erases everything. There was no reason to get that personal. He wasn't some teenager. This was a one-time thing, and while he hadn't put thought into this _actually happening_ before he'd paid for it, there was no reason to get personal about an exchange of... services... that Coin-trick had offered and Hank had paid for.

Even if the things Coin-trick asked basically said outright, _make it personal_. He retypes the message to something more impassive, then sends it.

> _> > From User: twinkluver1985_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Private Session_

[ _don't worry about it. got busy at my job and couldn't respond until now, sorry. anytime in the evening when you normally stream your thing is okay, probably._ ]

The response is almost immediate— fast enough that Hank thought for a moment he'd just neglected to mark the first message as 'read', or been sent a duplicate for some reason. He opens it cautiously but swiftly before he loses his nerve again.

> _> > Private Message _
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Re: Private Session_

[ _Anytime in the evening, certainly._

_How about right now?_ ]

Hank's stomach just about flips over. Right now? Shit, seriously?

He looks at himself. There had been no reason to bother changing into anything more than PJs after work, a few stains spotting the old band t-shirt that he had yet to scrub out, and truthfully had no intention to do so, ever. His sweats had a hole in one of the ankles where Sumo had gotten too rough during playtime when he was younger, but they were still serviceable, so Hank had never bothered getting rid of them. His beard was untrimmed, he needed a haircut badly, and a shower.

But none of that mattered, he just wasn't mentally prepared. Responding to a message or five was one thing, but facing head on what was quickly becoming a dirty fantasy in his mind was hardly equivalent. 

> _> > Private Message _
> 
> _From User: twinkluver1985_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Private Session_

[ _not now, sorry, need to get some work stuff done._ ]

It's a lie, of course, but there's no reason Coin-trick had to know that he wasn't planning on opening another goddamn case file for the rest of the night.

> _> > Private Message _
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Private Session_

[ _Understood. Please let me know when is most convenient for you and I'll do my best to accommodate it._ ]

> _> > Private Message _
> 
> _From User: twinkluver1985_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Private Session_

[ _tomorrow night? 8?_ ]

This time, it's a tense few moments until Coin-trick replies.

>   _> > Private Message_
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Private Session_

[ _8:00 PM EST it is._

_See you then._

_(:_ ]

An at-first quiet, then guttural groan of misery rips out of Hank's throat as he puts his face in his hands once again, knowing already that no matter what he spent the rest of the night on, this would be ever present in the back of his mind. 

Sumo looked up from his bed at the sound, ears perking up. Hank waved him off, muttering something about how lucky dogs were to lead such simple lives, because _he_ needed another beer.

 

-

 

Hank makes it into the station before noon the next day, trying not to tack on _surprisingly_ too heavily in his head, but it's hard when he also has to pretend he doesn't notice the look of blatant surprise on the receptionist's face when he passed her. He outright ignores whatever drivel spilled out of Gavin's mouth mid-conversation with Tina when they accidentally meet eyes, and Hank instantly makes a beeline straight for the break-room.

It's only after gathering ample ammunition— two donuts to go with his two coffees, actually there early enough to snag the chocolate-with-sprinkles donuts for once— that Hank settles at his desk, glaring at his console with blatant determination.

Today, he was going to make work his bitch, because tonight Coin-trick would be streaming for him, and him alone.

...No, today he was going to make work his bitch because it was _important,_ and Fowler was expected to present a report to Perkins by the morn. They needed to devote more manpower to current cases, so today was the day to find any errors in his own or others' work before heading to the chopping block. Hank had resorted to listing similar comparisons between cases by hand rather than individually, scouring them for details.

It seemed so silly, like double-checking you made your bed the "right" way before your parents came home, despite knowing damned well that you'd already made your bed. They were law enforcement, for God's sake, it wasn't like they were _trying_ to make mistakes. The paranoia it needled under Hank's skin, though, drove home that maybe there _was_ something to criticize— because, truthfully, though he hadn't found anything linking the crimes he examined, he had come across information he'd previously missed during the cases themselves.

There hadn't been anything that would have changed the outcome of those cases, thankfully, but it still put a pit in Hank's stomach to know he'd overlooked those details at all.

If he'd been paying better attention to his surroundings, Hank might have noticed that no one else was having the same meltdown he'd been experiencing for days on end. But he wasn't.

"What's the occasion, Anderson? 'Watering hole finally kick you out?" Cut in Gavin's sneering voice, bringing Hank back to the present in the most unpleasant way he could think of, "Didn't think they stayed open this late."

Hank leveled a _look_ at the detective. While he didn't believe in a higher power in the strictest sense, he was sure that if he did, he'd have made a note to ask, _dear Lord_ , _why did you have to give him such a punchable face? Why tempt me so?_

"Fuck off, Reed," Hank turned back toward his console, "The only _open hole_ around here is the one you won't shut."

Did that sound a little weird? Yeah, it did. Whatever. It seemed to perturb Gavin the ideal amount, though— where he was pissed just enough to leave, grumbling _senile old man_ under his breath, but not enough to engage further. 

Though deeply undesirable, the interruption had pushed Hank far enough from his thoughts to turn back to his reports, having come in early enough to finish up before dinner. Rather, early enough to force himself to put them down, because he wasn't finding anything. He hurriedly sends them off to Fowler and hightails it outta there before either of them could get a chance to find something to fight about.

He'd done his part— now he just had to wait it out. Hank gets something greasy and heavy from _The Chicken Feed,_ anticipating a long, restless night if all went well, but adequate booze fortification if it didn't. He tries to think of absolutely nothing until he gets home— not the reports, or what would happen in the stream. He fails spectacularly on both points, naturally.

At least if things went south he'd have had a damn good death knell to send him off: one who went by the pseudonym of _Coin-trick._

 

\--

 

It was 7:56 PM and Hank was kind of freaking out.

He'd procrastinated as much as he could after getting home— Sumo had already been walked and let out to do his business, Hank had done a load of laundry for the first time in _weeks_ (though he'd left it piled up on his bed, an unfolded mess), and he'd even bothered to take the trash out, for once. A cold one and a short-lived Gears game later, he was left with nothing to do.

7:57 PM.

Left to his own thoughts, exactly what he'd been trying to avoid.

7:58 PM.

The wooden chair under him felt awkward and small in comparison to his body. Wiping a hand down the back of his neck, he noted it was already feeling a little damp. _Don't overthink it, don't get yourself riled up for something that may be a letdown,_ he thought, already half-hard in a vague and absent-minded way, regardless. Without thinking, he palmed himself lightly, shutting his eyes—

Hank's phone buzzed next to him. 

8:00 PM. 

Fuck, he must have zoned out for the last full minute. Hank turned back to his laptop, earphones already in and heart hammering as he looks to his inbox, where a private message had popped up seemingly the second the hour had turned over to eight.

> _> > YP.tv: 1 New Private Message _
> 
> _From User: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Subject: Private Session - Live_
> 
> _Preview: http//ypn.tv/private/live/coin_trick/..._
> 
> _..._
> 
> >> _Connected! [LIVE]_

He'd clicked it before he could chicken out. The screen is similar to that of Coin-Trick's usual streams, but the viewer sidebar was now locked to only two names—  _moderator: Coin_Trick_ and _guest: twinkluver1985_. There's no donator banner or anything else that might put a barrier between this feeling just like a video call between two people, even friends. Hank isn't sure if that's comforting or disquieting.

Coin-trick is sitting behind the camera already, face ever-hidden.

"Ah, there you are. I was concerned you weren't going to make it, Twink Lover Nineteen-eighty-five."

8:02 PM. A bead of sweat travels down Hank's neck at hearing his horrible, autogenerated screenname. He's so used to not responding during the other's streams that he nearly forgets he's being _waited on._

> _twinkluver1985: hi_

_'Real smooth, Hank._

_"_ Hello," He must say for Hank's benefit, voice soft and warm. Coin-trick is wearing what looks like the same white button-up shirt as the last time Hank had seen him stream, the top button already undone. 

"I thought, given the situation, that this location might be a little more... appropriate."

It's only when Coin-trick spreads his hands out beside where he's sitting that Hank realizes what he'd meant— the man is sitting at the edge of a neatly made bed, the camera angled to where the tops of his spread thighs were shown, all the way up to the long column of his throat, cutting off his view of anything above the rise of his chin.

Bedroom. _Appropriate_. Hank's stomach gives a lurch. 

Yeah, a kitchen chair dragged over to his desk just wasn't going to do. Hank picks up his laptop and heads toward his own bedroom.

"I'm starting the timer now. Is that alright?" Coin-trick says as Hank looks away to navigate around the couch.

It's a reminder of what this is, though not an unkind one. The lieutenant flushes with slight embarrassment, glad he doesn't have to do this face-to-face, at least.  He types a response with one hand, making sure Sumo doesn't find a way to trip him somehow.  

> _twinkluver1985: yeah sure_

Hank makes sure to kick his bedroom door closed behind him before sitting on his messy bed, kicking all the laundry he'd so _helpfully_ done earlier out of the way to make room for him to spread out. Propping his laptop up on a pillow, he's sure not to look away for anything, this time.

"Where would you like me to begin?" Coin-Trick doesn't show hesitation at Hank's lack of response and instead sounds curious, maybe even a little eager. His willingness to jump right ahead shows in the methodical motions of his hands over his belt, moving to open his dark trousers with clear intent.

It wasn't normal for Hank to be _startled_ into being conversational, but then again, this wasn't _normal._

> _twinkluver1985: hey, take your time_

The last thing he wanted was for this to get awkward and forced. Not only would he feel guilty, but in all honesty, he couldn't get off on that, either. 

> _twinkluver1985: why dont you get warmed up first?_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: like before_

"...I understand," Coin-trick's hands change routes, and he flattens his palms over his thighs, running them upward until they dragged up the length of his torso, feeling himself out in a near mirror image of the stream Hank had referenced. "Like this?"

Hank took a shallow breath, watching Coin-trick's hands rub in circles over his own body, already getting wrapped up in the image of them. 

> _twinkluver1985: yes_

Sweeping over the length of his thighs, Coin-trick drags his cupped hands up and over them, the motion bunching his slacks at the seam of his hips, which immediately draws Hank's attention in a very physical way, the lieutenant idly palming himself to the sight to get things going again.

"Admittedly, this is somewhat difficult when I can't see you," The comment doesn't stop him however, Coin-trick drawing his touch upward to rub over the crest of his ribs through his shirt. "You weren't very detailed in our previous correspondence, so I have to go on intuition."

His slim fingers dipped under the fabric of his shirt, reaching up to the knuckle— minutely straining the button as his shirt lifts from the searching fingertips. Hank grips himself in place, wishing he could reach out and unbutton Coin-trick's shirt, but not having the guts to ask for it yet.

"...But I barely know you, if even that much," The slim reveal of skin beneath his shirt nearly distracts Hank enough to not parse the slow, smoothly articulated speech humming through his earphones, driving his own lazy touches, "It's... problematic."

_Nearly_ — but not quite. The pause and minute change in Coin-trick's careful inflection haul him to the surface, and like the sudden catch of a hook in a fish's cheek, Hank is caught off guard.

> _twinkluver1985: huh?_

"Was I unclear?" Coin-trick's hands still, hanging at his sides and onto the edge of the dark bed cover. "I want to satisfy you, but I don't know how."

—It was spoken so plainly and truthfully, Hank could barely breathe. _Hook, line, and sinker._

> _twinkluver1985: its fine_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: just_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: be yourself_

It has some effect on Coin-trick, because he starts to move again, though Hank isn't certain of the specifics. His palms splay open in his lap, the gentle dip of his chin into view suggesting he was examining them. After a beat, he starts to unhurriedly unbutton his shirt.

"I can be anything you want me to be," Slowly, tentatively, "...are you _sure_  this is what you want?"

Hank doesn't need to hesitate— he already knows his answer.

> _twinkluver1985: yes_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: absolutely_

"Very well. Please know you're free to change your mind at any time."

Coin-trick pulls off his shirt, the draw of his shoulders backward to remove it defining the muscles of his chest and upper arms. He sets it to the side of him on the bed, his fairly well-muscled, slim torso now bare to Hank's roaming eyes, from the arch of his hips peeking from the edge of his waistband, and up to his defined collarbones. Crossing his arms at the wrist, Coin-trick brought his hands up his thin middle, spreading his fingers over his chest before bringing them up in to circle around his throat, brushing behind his jaw before reversing the action in a long, sweeping movement all the way back down to his thighs.

It's almost reverent, the manner in which Coin-trick touched himself. Hank can relate.

>   _twinkluver1985: gorgeous_

"I appreciate the compliment," There might be a smirk in Coin-trick's voice, only further inferable by the kneading motion of his fingertips over his thighs, sweeping back and forth before delving into the crease of his slacks between his legs. The lieutenant can't resist squeezing himself over his sweats with a low groan when Coin-trick presses the heel of his palm to his crotch, rocking it in place. Blatant, yet almost teasing.

"Are you enjoying this?" 

> _twinkluver1985: yeah_

"I'd like to hear about it," Coin-trick says softly, spreading his legs and leaning back a little on one hand as his other continued to palm himself lightly for the camera, "Please?"

Hank is torn for a second because while he'd like to respond, that involved freeing up both hands. 

But, Coin-trick _had_ said please...

> _twinkluver1985: how could i not be_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: do you even see yourself_

Coin-trick says nothing at first, but where words failed to convey his recognition of Hank's response, his posture did instead, the streamer's hips starting to gently roll into his hand. Hank's mouth felt dry, one hand coiled tightly around himself through his shorts, moving in time with Coin-trick's subtle movements. The other's palm flattens and his movements turn more obvious, Hank's eyes on the man's hand rubbing over himself, the lieutenant's own darting under his shorts to half coil around his dick through his boxers, stroking the material against it tightly. 

> _twinkluver1985: shit_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: im so hard_

Hank types one-handed, yanking down his shorts and boxers with the other, not caring how flushed or desperate he probably looked _and_ sounded in this moment.

_"_ Oh... _"_ Coin-trick breathed, speaking so low Hank can barely make it out in the stream audio, "I am too."

As if to prove it, Coin-trick bunches the material of his pants in his palm and strokes, clearly wrapping around himself through the material. Fuck, he _was_ just as turned on, no matter how unflappable his exterior might seem. Hank slid a hand around himself, hissing at the sensation, sweeping what had beaded at the head of his cock down over his shaft quickly with eyes locked onto the streamer's hand. 

> _twinkluver1985: can i see_
> 
> __twinkluver1985: if not its f_ _
> 
> ____twinkluver1985: ine_ _ _ _

The lieutenant is too wrapped up in this now to hold himself back, the question slipping out unashamedly as he grips the base of his erection, squeezing, teasing himself one-handed, his other still poised above his laptop's keyboard.

To his surprise, Coin-trick doesn't respond orally this time and goes straight to pushing his open trousers down his thighs one-handed, wandering fingertips hooking under his boxers to reveal himself fully.

"Is this what you were expecting?"

Hank made an embarrassing noise. Thick, well-proportioned, and flushed, standing against his stomach beneath a fine dusting of hair. Look, he'd seen a lotta people's junk in his time, both in real life and on his computer screen. 

But Coin-trick was _perfect._

And watching him wrap a hand around it only made it better. Made it more real. He's immediately filled with the desire to have it in both his hand and his mouth.

> _twinkluver1985: fuck_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: beautiful_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: wanna see you get yourself off_

Hank slumped back on his bed, moving his palm over himself messily, panting as he watched Coin-trick move his hand in tight, full movements, steady from base to tip.

"You seem preoccupied, Twink Lover Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

It was clearly meant to be teasing, but it's said with such a growing, odd intensity that it makes Hank's breath catch in his throat. 

"Are you pleasuring yourself watching this— watching me?"

That was putting it lightly.

>   _twinkluver1985: yeah_

Hank pauses, gripping himself tightly.

> _twinkluver1985: wish itwere you though_

"Tell me how," Coin-trick asks entreatingly, hips thrusting lightly into his hand while his palm moves quickly over the flushed head of his cock, clearly moving single-mindedly toward one thing. "What would I do?"

Hank has to bite his own palm to keep down the loud groan that threatens to surface as he jerks himself off tightly, fingers shaking when he stops to type haphazardly. He could just blow it now, but he's possessed with the need to respond— to engage in the situation equally. 

> _twinkluver1985: youd be on your back_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: so i can see your face whle i fuck you_

_"_ Is that...what you want?" He asked abruptly, tone not breathless but showing _strain_ nonetheless. "...To see my face?"

Coin-trick's body was visibly twitching with arousal now, shifting here and there against the edge of the bed, and into his hand. Fuck, Hank couldn't think of something he wanted more. 

> _twinkluver1985: yes_

His heart beat in his throat just as strongly as the arousal throbbing under his fingertips, stuttering to a stop when Coin-trick shifted a leg onto the bed, partially laying down and leaning toward—

—Toward the camera to push the view outward and up, the confines of the stream expanding to reveal the side of his turned face.

Coin-trick's face.

He was handsome, because of-fucking-course he would be. Even if Hank could only see his face from a three-quarter view because of his positioning, that much was obvious. Dark hair, that he'd just seemed to have swept back because one of his hands was still poised over his temple, and defined cheekbones that stood out even on the limited stream view. His full, reddened lips were parted somewhat, features strong in places but soft in others, his brown eyes were intense and... Hank wasn't even sure how to put it, Piercing? No, emotional? Focused? Focused but distant, at the same time, almost like he was looking right at him. 

Hank didn't know if Coin-trick was asking for a response or not, but he had to say something, all the same.

> _twinkluver1985: god youre perfect_

Coin-trick's mouth turns at the sides, just briefly into something approaching a smile. 

He seems to be preoccupied with something, which is when Hank realizes the man hadn't stopped touching himself for a second, his palm still moving tightly around his cock, focusing on the head. Showing his face hadn't seemed to have frazzled the other at all— if anything, Hank is noticing more reactions, now that he can put it all together: little twitches of Coin-trick's body all over, eyelids fluttering, the tense and relaxation and tense again of his toned thighs spreading outward.

Arousal surges in Hank's gut, recognizing on some muddled, innate level that there was only one place left for this to go, and Coin-trick was eager and willing. He resumes the push-pull of his now-slick hand over himself, moaning under his breath when he unconsciously timed the movement to the fast pace Coin-trick set, cursing as he felt _that_ telltale feeling forming, like a spring ready to snap.  

> _twinkluver1985: m close_

Hank throws his head back with a hissed _fuck_ , using both hands now, one feverishly moving over his cock, the other dipping beneath it to cup his balls, feeling them tighten as he got closer to the edge. He'd have closed his eyes and let it overtake him if not for wanting to keep his eyes on the stream, watching Coin-trick's hand run over himself from base to tip.

_"Ah—"_ Coin-trick says suddenly, just like he'd done the first time Hank had seen him stream— but where he'd cut the stream short then, he now showed no signs of stopping, his free hand moving onto the bedspread to grip it tightly, a look of determination on his face. 

He blinked rapidly, lips parting with a strained sound that sent what felt like a bolt of lightning up Hank's cock, _"_ I think I'm-"

Coin-trick's body seized up with a tight gasp, and in that moment he turns his face away from Hank, but it doesn't matter— the jerk of his cock and the streaks of white that paint his hand says it all. The display pushes Hank over the edge almost out of nowhere, a ragged moan ripping from his lips as he tensed, the crescendo of his orgasm washing over him like a floodwater, something that saturated everything in its path.

It takes Hank more than a few moments to catch his breath, chest rising and falling with heavy movements, both hands thrown to the side of him on the bed. When he regains enough brainpower to be aware again, he glances blearily at the stream, brushing the hair that had clung to his damp forehead off with his clean hand. 

Coin-trick is sprawled on the bed, giving Hank a side-profile view of his face, the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his chin. His body was a vision, and though he wasn't panting like the lieutenant was, the change was perceivable even if it wasn't obvious. 

"I must admit... I had hoped," He starts, voice small, but gaining volume and confidence the longer he spoke.

"I had hoped it would be someone like you, but I'm surprised and... appreciative that it actually was."

Coin-trick tilts his face just a little toward the camera, lips twitching upward minutely. "Thank you."

Hank is bowled over. He'd just blown probably one of the best loads of his life to this gorgeous man egging him on, even if it was in his own way, and now _he_ was the one being thanked?  

> _twinkluver1985: you_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: have nothing to thank me for_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: i'm the one who should thank you_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: jesus christ_

Coin-trick's response is warm and easy.

_"_ Nevertheless, I feel I should. Thank you, Twink Lover Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

There's no doubt in Hank's mind that it was going to be impossible to forget this— someone like Coin-trick thanking _him,_ with that little near-smile that wasn't shy so much as it was understated and in that way seemed genuine, the way a bit of his perfectly coifed hair swept across the side of his forehead that faced the stream, like it just decided to rebel against the rest of his hair.

Like the way Hank's heart was still hammering against his chest because of this goddamn cam boy who he'd just paid to have video sex with him. 

> _twinkluver1985: thanks_
> 
> _twinkluver1985: beautiful_

"The allotted time is up, but—" Coin-trick's soft brown eyes pan the room without moving his face, before settling on the camera. "I hope you'll come and flatter me with your compliments again soon."

> _twinkluver1985: not sure i have a choice now_

_"_ You always had a choice. That's what makes it so special."

Hank is so flabbergasted he forgets to say anything in response at first. Eventually, one of Coin-trick's hands comes up to press into his hair, keeping it out of his face as he sits up, scooting toward the camera. That little almost-smile graces his lips once again.

"Goodnight."

He at least has the ability to answer _this._

> _twinkluver1985: night_

With one more brief look at Coin-trick's face, the stream ends, and Hank is left staring at an _OFFLINE_ screen, where only one person is left— _guest: twinkluver1985._

 

_-_

 

Despite everything, Hank can't deny that there's a spring in his step the next morning. It had started with waking up naturally instead of to his blaring alarm for once (whether it was an actual alarm, or a hangover headache making just as much of a fuss), followed by a good old shower wank, and whatever he could scrounge for a snack. He'd already fed and let Sumo out for the morning with a little extra playtime by 10:00 AM.

Checking his personal messages, Hank was surprised to see there was a notification from Coin-trick. A public post on the announcement section of his page, reading:

> _Everyone,_
> 
> _I apologize, but I will probably not be able to stream regularly for a short amount of time. I'll still be present here when I can, though. I look forward to seeing you all then._
> 
> _(:_
> 
> _Coin_Trick_

That dampens Hank's spirits considerably. Was Coin-trick having second thoughts about showing his face to him? Frowning, Hank decides to tempt fate and respond to his initial stream message, having to retype the message three times because of typos. 

> _twinkluver1985: hope things are alright_

To Hank's surprise, the response is immediate— within a minute, even, long enough for Hank to get sidetracked briefly by some random gossip news article before the response notification popped up on his phone.

> _ Coin_Trick: I assure you it's certainly alright. Thank you for asking. I had fun. _

Hank feels his cheeks warm at the message, realizing it was a public interaction on the other's page— acknowledging that he was the one who'd sniped the private stream. For some reason, it restores his attitude. He shoots off a _good luck_ before resuming his morning-slash-usually-afternoon ritual, and to even his own surprise is choosing to walk into the precinct in one of his more snazzy patterned shirts by 11:00 AM sharp— unexpectedly early, given his record. 

No one looked at him, either, except for Gavin, who quite frankly he didn't give a fuck about right now.

Even more surprising, the casework being handed off to Perkins didn't even occur to him until he was halfway through responding to the precinct emails he'd received the night before.

Amazingly, Hank actually tried to shrug it off. Having finished some of the usual busywork, he decided to grab some lunch despite having eaten only two hours earlier, just to get it out of the way. He could crack down on some of the new cases that had piled up on his desk during the Perkins ordeal after grub, and then hopefully whatever happened... 

...Well, he'd deal with that later.

Gathering up his keys and a case file to look over while he ate, Hank found himself considering for the briefest of seconds if he should grab something to-go for Ben or Chris, too, but shook it out of his head immediately. Nah. He wasn't in _that_ good of a mood. Still hadn't forgiven Chris for dumping Gavin on him a couple cases ago, and Ben for... well actually, the same thing. Good thing he'd gotten right back at Ben by weaseling himself out of a case with Gavin a few months earlier.

Hank is nearly out the door looking like the cat who caught the canary at the memory of his misdeeds when he hears the  _clack_ of dress shoes against the hard flooring, and a voice sounds loudly behind him.

"Lieutenant Anderson!" 

Hank freezes mid-step at the precinct double doors.

"I apologize for stopping you, but I had hoped to catch you before you left."

There's no way. 

Abso-fucking-lutely _no way_.

Hank grits his teeth and turns, only to drop his keys the second he lays eyes on who's standing behind him. He's unable to hold back the look of blatant, open-mouth shock as he takes him in— dark hair, long-legged, a black and grey suit and tie over a white shirt. Hank drops the file now, too.

At his temple, a glowing ring pulsed a gentle blue.

The man's eyes flick to the fallen objects on the floor, then back to Hank, before he's extending a hand in greeting.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Connor, the android sent by CyberLife."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :")  
> :")  
> :")  
> this chapter ended up being twice the length of the others because i was too irl feverish to bother splitting it.
> 
> hmu as always at @rk69420 on twitter or the comment section!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAD DECISIONS AHEAD

" _Connor_."

It rolls off Hank's tongue like one might sneer an obviously fake name, though not the kind he saw in his line of work. It was closer to the type from when he was a teenager— something so outrageous but delivered _so_ convincingly, you had to look to see if there was a camera around, or at least a couple of giggling friends. The kind of name real people just didn't have.

It wasn't far from the truth— Connor was an android.

Hank takes one look at Connor's outstretched hand before he picks up his things, jabs them into his coat pockets, and heads right out the door. He doesn't stop walking even when he hears Connor call after him.

"Excuse me, lieutenant?" _Connor_ calls, unruffled... and very much still behind him.

Hank doesn't look back, and instead walks faster, making it out to the parking structure in record time.

"I think there may be a misunderstanding," Connor asks, somehow _still_ behind him, "I'm here on behalf of CyberLife, which is working in cooperation with—"

He's cut off by the wave of Hank's hand over his shoulder, which he assumes is close enough to the android's face to prompt a reaction. _Good._

"No misunderstanding— I just don't give a shit," Hank grumbled, remembering too late that he hadn't gotten ground parking. Fuck.

He knows before he even gets into the ruddy-colored lift that he's going to be followed, and dreads it. But he was _not_ taking the stairs. Hank says nothing as Connor steps into the elevator next to him, and despite the polite distance the android has put between them, the tension that immediately suffocates the small space when the doors close is palpable.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank can see that blasted LED on the side of his temple glowing _yellow_ , of all things, but doesn't turn to face him, punching the _4_ button, instead.

It's too bad ignoring his problems never made them go away, not really.

"...It seems that I may have caught you at an inopportune time, lieutenant." Connor notes courteously.

"Yes," Hank responds with even gruffer, starting to grit his teeth.

"I could come back later, if that suits your... _situation_ better."

" _No_." Hank finishes firmly, and after a glance at the _very slow_ floor display starts jabbing the _open doors_ button of the elevator. Connor notices this, of course, because it's impossible not to, and is speaking again before the lieutenant can cut him off.

"Captain Fowler has already informed me of your... _stance_ on androids," Connor says slowly and placatingly.

Hank jabs his finger right into that scuffed plastic button and doesn't let go, but it makes no difference. He should have just taken the fucking stairs.

"And I understand that my presence here may make you uncomfortable, but—"

Anger blooms in Hank's chest suddenly, hot and smothering.

It hadn't been enough to put him at the center of a unit he didn't have the heart for, or to have Perkins at his throat, or that he couldn't drink enough liquor, couldn't beat the odds _,_ that some higher power had the _audacity_ , the utter _gall_ to put him in an elevator with this goddamn man, _Coin-Trick_ or _Connor,_ who he'd... 

No, he wasn't a man. He was an _android,_ and Hank was a fool.

...And then to have him treat Hank like he was delicate.

Before he knew it, Hank had Connor hauled up against the wall of the elevator, fists balled in his shirt and jacket, all teeth, "Listen here, asshole—"

Connor's hands are splayed against the metallic-finish of the wall behind him, fingertips of one hand skittered across the door buttons, but his eyes stare impassively into Hank's from close up, brows barely drawn. The expression makes Hank falter, steaming, especially when Connor made no attempt to free himself.

"—I believe you've misunderstood the context of my being here, Lieutenant Anderson."

Hank is breathing hard. He notes Connor's LED is still yellow and his face twitches subtly, but it's a far cry from how his own expression must seep disgust. A sizable part of that was self-directed, but all the same.

There's a moment of silence, during which Hank has the briefest realization that Coin— _Connor's_ skin wasn't as perfect as it had seemed on his monitor at all, but scattered with moles here and there, after which Connor is speaking again, words tight and to the point.

"It is true that I was sent on behalf of CyberLife, but in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation."

The elevator dings cheerily and the doors open, flooding the space with natural light. It only serves to illuminate the white of the lieutenant's knuckles pressed tightly to his skin where they're buried in Connor's shirt. Hank lets go of him, taking a step back. Connor settles back onto his dress shoes with an imperceivable expression, none the worse for wear, save his ruffled clothing.

"Perkins," Hank hisses under his breath, stuffing his hands into his jacket and stepping out of the elevator, thankful for the cool rush of air into his lungs, but that was the extent of his relief, "' _Course_ it's fucking Perkins."

Behind him, Connor steps out of the elevator, smoothing down his clothing as if nothing had happened.

"I see you are familiar with Special Agent Perkins already," He tucks his shimmering LED tie back into place, "yes, he is the one who assigned me here."

"And what did that human trashcan send you to do? Tell me I'm off the job? Or maybe," Hank settles a glare at him, feeling more drained and wrung up inside than he had in days, "You're here to _replace_ me? That it?"

It seemed the logical end to this, all things considered. Hank had known deep down that it was all going to crumble eventually, but even so, he hadn't expected _this._ Life sure had a way of showing him up.

"Not at all, lieutenant," Connor says simply, LED now cycling blue, "I'm here to assist you."

Hank can only stare.

"Assist me," Hank repeats lamely.

"Yes, specifically with recent cases involving androids. It was thought I could be useful in resolving these investigations especially as an android, myself... among other reasons."

The distinct feeling starts to bubble up in Hank's chest that this was turning into something _worse_ than being replaced.

"Bullshit." Hank spits unkindly, but Connor doesn't seem deterred in the least, even taking a cautious step toward him, his tone shifting to something more conversational.

"On the contrary— I'm an advanced prototype programmed specifically to assist with law enforcement. I'm capable of analysis, pre-construction, and reconstruction at a previously unprecedented level."

He says it like one might state the weather. _Cloudy with a chance of showers, and just so you know, I'm also a super-computer housed in a hot, 30-something bod._ Hank backs toward his car, waving a hand furiously when Connor opens his mouth to speak again. Still not interested.

"Look. I'm not sure what that shit-stain told you, but I'm not in the market for a partner, 'specially not an android— doesn't matter how many," Hank flounders for just a second, scrambling to pull his keys out of his jacket, "-how many _bells and whistles_ you've got."

The second Hank gets his body in the car, he slams the door shut, just in case Connor found a way to follow him into _there_ , too. Connor knocks on the window politely, waiting patiently for him to roll the window down. Hank immediately wishes he hadn't.

"With all due respect, Lieutenant Anderson, my placement has already been approved by both Agent Perkins and Captain Fowler. I've taken the liberty to transmit both my assignment briefing and credentials to your console for review at your leisure."

Hank doesn't say anything. He _can't_ say anything, because every passing moment feels more unreal than the last, all of it culminating into a tight feeling behind his eyebrows, the pinch of a migraine fast-forming. Connor tilts his head, looking somewhat satisfied, though his LED keeps flashing between blue and yellow.

"It's a... _Pleasure_ to be stationed with such an... esteemed member of law enforcement, lieutenant. I hope we can work well together."

The engine of Hank's car rumbles to life as he turns the ignition, features drawn into a tight grimace, every ounce of it audible in his tone. He gives Connor the option to move or get clipped by his side mirror while he backs out, and the android takes a measured step out of the way.

"Pleasure's all yours, kid, 'cause I'm _not doin' it._ "

 

\---

 

"You're doing it, Hank," Fowler says the next afternoon, point blank.

They're in his office, Hank having stormed in the moment he'd arrived at Central Station, completely bypassing his own desk... mostly because he'd seen Connor sitting in the empty space across from it and took an immediate detour. The bluster that had rose in his chest the moment he'd awakened hadn't subsided since entering Fowler's office, and in fact had only grown into something insidious, working its way up through the tense line of Hank's body.

"Like _hell_ I am, Fowler!" Hank hisses, eyes flicking over to where he can see the back of Connor's head beyond the glass, "What do you think this is, a joke?"

Fowler's hand smacks onto his desk between them, drawing Hank's attention back to him. He looks just as angry.

"Exactly what kind of a position do you think I'm in, here?" Fowler gestured to the rest of the station incredulously. Everyone in sight is at work on _something_ , except for Connor, who sat alone like a child in time-out. "Look— we're down bodies— human, or not. And _he_ — I may not be into this whole android thing, but the guy checks out. Do you want to solve these cases or not?"

Hank makes a sound of frustration, hands balling into fists against the captain's desk, "That's a load of— you know Perkins is just doing this to—"

"Hank, look at me," Fowler taps on his desk with each word, " _I. Am. Tired._ Perkins or not, you do this, or it's your badge. No warnings, no disciplinary reports, nothing. Out."

Wordlessly, Hank stands, expression taut with unspoken anger. His hand comes up to his chest pocket, hovering over his badge, rough fingertips just barely making contact. Ready to rip it off. Fowler doesn't so much as blink, his expression driving home just how serious he is. Fuck.

"Why do you even care, anyway?" Fowler spreads his hands, palm-up, "He doesn't work out, they'll just send him 'back'. Get rid of him, whatever. But if he does..."

A frustrated sound works its way out of Hank's throat, and he can only hope it's angry and gruff enough to hide how markedly pathetic he felt in this moment, "Jeffrey, I _can't."_

"You _can't_ , Hank, or you won't?"

The challenge hangs in the air between them, dark and blatant. None of it can truly convey the pit that's settled in Hank's stomach, nor the one he was willing to bet laid in Fowler's as well.

There's a knock at the door. They both turn— Connor is waiting patiently outside, an unreadable expression on his face, LED a calm blue. To Hank's chagrin, Fowler immediately waves him in, making an _out_ motion in Hank's direction at the same time.

"You get out there and serve _your people_ , or you know where to find me, Anderson," He turned to Connor, gesturing toward his desk, "Connor— a word."

"Certainly, captain," Connor tilts his head toward Hank in acknowledgment as he passes by, "...lieutenant."

The door shuts behind him. Hank crosses the room to his desk, sits down, and releases the deep breath he'd unknowingly been holding, visibly deflating.

It was a whole helluva lot to take in, that's for sure.

He wasn't fired, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. He could give up now, turn everything in, go home and— but that wasn't necessarily a good thing, either. He didn't have the guts to do it, just like he didn't have the guts to fight Fowler, to die on that hill, out of all the hills Hank had found himself fighting on, the past few years... since Cole. He'd done a lot of fighting, but just as much retreating.

Hank's heart clenched, as it always did. He scowls, instinctively wanting to wet his mouth on the rim of a bottle, but he'd only just gotten here, and even Hank didn't think he could get away with dipping for booze _this_ fast. But, shit, did he need it. Shame roiled under his skin, angry and black.

Shame for thinking things with Perkins might have blown over, and shame for thinking Coin-trick had been anything but what was now obvious— a mirage, something to shove it in his face that there's been a spark left in him at all. It was laughable he'd ever managed to think otherwise. 

He'd even checked his email when he'd gotten home the night prior, seeing with unsurprised trepidation that Coin-Trick had never streamed. 

"Lieutenant," _Coin_ \- no, Connor's voice catches Hank's attention, and a scowl jumps right back onto his face. Connor is standing next to Hank's desk, looking stiff in both posture and face. Wouldn't be the first time Hank had zonked out at his console and freaked someone out, though.

"Captain Fowler has briefed me on the range of investigations you're currently overlooking. I was hoping we could visit the crime scene in the most recent case."

Ah, that girl— the one tied to the crew from the _Jericho_. No wonder the guy looked uncomfortable. Hank shrugs.

"Apparently I've got nothin' better to do than babysit you, so yeah, be my guest."

This time, they leave the station normally, but only in that Connor isn't essentially chasing Hank out of his workplace, because Hank is still visibly unhappy. It was a resignation that drove Hank's footsteps, now, ready to snap at a moment's notice.

They're approaching Hank's car when Connor sees fit to speak again.

"Lieutenant, Do you like dogs?"

Hank turns in his seat, a brow raised in suspicion as he flips on the gas.

"Excuse me?"

"There are dog hairs on your jacket. It appears as if they all come from the same breed, so I was wondering—"

"Yeah, I got a dog," Hank jeers, watching with chagrin as Connor sits in his passenger seat because of course, he does. "What's it to you?"

"I like dogs," Connor says simply, lips twitching minutely upward at the sides.

"Oh, hell."

 

\---

 

The streets were slick and dotted with snowy white by the time Hank pulled onto the street of the dingy old apartment complex and only threatening to become more so as the day moves on. Connor had stayed quiet during the drive, for the most part, likely sensing how Hank felt about the situation and choosing to do so out of self-preservation. Not that it was exactly hard to tell, or anything. Hank was practically radiating it, at this point.

A few questions had still crept in between tracks of _Knights of the Black Death,_ though _._

Stupid questions. Questions he can't imagine why an android, let alone an investigative one, would want to know. Things like, "What kind of dog do you have," and, "Do you like any sports teams?", "Is this the type of music you always listen to, lieutenant?", along with little anecdotes about Connor's own opinion on the topic, things arbitrary enough it got Hank wondering if they were even true.

But It was still hard to tell if listening to Connor talk was helping or hurting. When Hank had his eyes on the road, it became all too easy to think back to Coin-trick's streams and try to compare, to find the differences and likenesses. To their _content_ in general. Thankfully, the drive hadn't taken too long, so Hank hadn't given in to the urge to throw himself into traffic to escape Connor.

"Hey, Hank," Chris Miller met them at the door to the apartment, waving a padlock key in his fingers and eyes looking over Connor with polite speculation as they reached the top of the complex's stairs, "Glad you showed. I've been freezing my ass off out here waiting, the landlord's pretty done with us, wants to start the remodeling."

Hank tries not to wheeze too obviously from the stairs, waving Chris off, "Don't pretend you aren't enjoying being off the beat for a day. We'll be in and out in a jiffy, and you can go back to your nice, warm desk."

When Chris turns to unlock the apartment door, Hank turns as well to Connor, waving a finger of warning.

"If I say not to touch something, don't touch it. If I say it's time to leave, we leave. You're here on my rules, fuck whatever Perkins said."

"Got it." Connor nods.

The apartment was small, cramped, and even with very little furniture to block the windows, very dark. It's also musty, and dust covered many of its surfaces— it made it pretty obvious which parts of the largest room were actually traversed, at least. Hank runs a hand up the wall to flick a light on, but nothing comes of it.

"Power's still cut," Hank mutters to himself, pulling a flashlight from his jacket. Connor evidently didn't need it, as he'd already taken a few steps farther in, slowly panning the room. Hank knows he's doing it because that damned LED is glowing in the dark like some haunted Froot Loop.

They look around the room without interacting much, though Hank keeps stealing little glances at the android out of a bitter kind of curiosity toward his methods, and maybe a little suspicion, though that all grinds to a halt the second Connor hunches down, touching something on the floor...

... And then putting his finger into his mouth.

"What the hell did I just say?" Hank sputters, disgusted, "Don't touch anything— Did you just put that shit in your mouth?"

"Sorry, lieutenant. My analysis sensors are located in my tongue," Connor muses, not sounding very sorry at all, "Though, you did say, _if_ you told me not to touch something, not in general..."

"Fuckin' great," He sneers, "The last thing I need is something _else_ going on Perkin's— whatever file thing you've got going on me, just 'cause you couldn't keep evidence outta your mouth."

Connor gives him a _look_ that an android had no business making so convincingly.

"I'm not the one in charge of handling that inquiry, Lieutenant," Is all Connor says.

That was news to _him._ If it wasn't because of the cases Fowler had forwarded over, then why the hell was Connor even _here?_

"What? Then who is?" Hank balks.

"Someone... else," Connor says vaguely in a way that draws Hank's suspicion, then stands, looking over the frayed flooring, "Strange. There are Thirium stains here belonging to the AP700 model— the victim— but of vastly varying ages."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that the Thirium found around the AP700 at the time of deactivation and the Thirium I'm finding here, and in multiple other parts of the apartment, were lost at different time intervals than when the crime was thought to take place."

"One, _English_. Two, How much we talkin'?" Hank grimaces, looking around the room— he can't see the Thirium after it's dried down, of course, so he can only try to remember based on the crime scene photos, and _that_ had looked pretty gruesome, so imagining more than that being around was... well. "So what, she was tortured?"

"It's a possibility," Connor says distantly, his LED cycling yellow, something Hank is quickly starting to grasp as the android's _thinking about something_  ' tell', "But something doesn't add up."

"I've scanned this room, and I don't see any shoe prints, fingerprints, or marks left by anyone other than the victim, law personnel, and the landlord within the past ninety days."

There's a pregnant pause. Hank can see where Connor is taking this.

"Think it was self-inflicted?" Hank raises a brow, "The guys did say it was her uh, what do you call it— _pump_ getting taken out that finally did her in."

"There is an eighty-six-point-five-nine-zero-nine possibility that that's the case, yes," Connor says, but doesn't look satisfied.

"So where's the mystery? We saw androids doing this shit all the time before—" Hank waves his hand awkwardly: _Deviants, the uprising_ , and the like going unsaid, "You know, _that_."

"This android didn't Deviate on its own— it was freed by Markus himself, during the March. It shouldn't have been expressing symptoms of such programming in the way other Deviants did, not unless there were critical contradictions, like a virus, or..." 

Connor stands, but is looking hard at a certain place on the ratty area rug, where Hank knows from the photos to be where the android had 'died'. 

"I don't think she had even chosen a name, yet."

That's Hank's cue to look somewhere else. He starts at the kitchenette, turning his back to Connor.

"Guess we'll never know, given how much they said her head was busted, or whatever," Hank sets his flashlight down sideways, shuffling through the kitchenette's drawers first— nothing but a few abandoned plastic forks and a clothespin. He didn't expect there to be anything but cobwebs following the initial investigation, but it didn't hurt to be thorough. "Figures."

"' _Figures_ ' how?" Connor asks, now from the other room.

Hank's eyes catch a moldy note stuffed into a corner of the last drawer down, and he turns it over in his hand under the flashlight. It read, _milk, eggs, cereal, diapers...—_ he lowers it, frowning.

"Just 'cause you free a jailbird, 'don't mean it can fly."

The apartment floor creaks softly as Connor re-enters the room.

"I'm not sure I follow, lieutenant."

Sighing, Hank tucks the note back into the drawer where he'd found it, closing it. "'Means that sometimes, being free to live however you please ain't enough. At least to our Jane Doe, it wasn't."

Finished with his search, Hank becomes aware of the distinctly _yellow_ light out of the corner of his eye. He turns to Connor, who is now back at the center of the entry room, and finds the other staring at him, brows furrowed and lips parted.

"...No, I guess not."

Hank doesn't know what to make of the gesture, so he doesn't make anything of it at all. They leave the crime scene soon after, and a little after that, Hank finds himself on the cusp of finally being free from his first full day with Connor as his ' _partner_ '. Connor, the _android from CyberLife_ , Connor, the mystery pain in his ass.

There's no fanfare and no big fight: Hank is exhausted, so he pulls on his jacket, grabs his things, and in his mind, that's that, he's going home. Connor, who had settled into the desk opposite of him (and as much as Hank would like to protest, it's the only one free) stands immediately, intercepting the lieutenant's path awkwardly.

"Lieutenant, before you go, there's something I wanted to ask you."

Hank tries to quell the sinking feeling that immediately seizes him, Connor's seeming propensity to make unnervingly shameless eye contact only plunging the feeling deeper. Clearly whatever makes it to Hank's face doesn't read as a non-answer, because the other keeps going.

"I would like to have your phone number," Connor starts.

_Oh, thank Christ._

"...Just in case I need to reach you, and..." His LED blinks yellow for a fraction of a second, and despite Hank's almost-relief at the question being related to work, it's clear Connor is trying to rephrase something along the lines of _and_ _you're plastered in some bar,_ "—And you're not at the station."

Hank doesn't bother hiding the scoff that spills from his lips, now safely back to annoyance, "Hell no."

He's halfway to his car when his phone buzzes.

> [Unknown Number:]  Hello, Lieutenant. This is Connor. I regret to admit I already had your phone number, but it seemed the polite thing to do was request it from you personally. Please contact me at this number for anything concerning a case. I do not require sleep, so your unique timetable will not be an issue.

Figured. Fowler probably gave it to him the second he'd arrived, the bastard.

> [Unknown Number:]  Additionally, feel free to contact me about matter outside of the DPD, as well. The cases are my main objective, but I am more than willing to do anything that can aid our working relationship.

His phone gets tossed onto his lap, and Hank makes it as far as starting up his car and flipping on the heat before he can no longer keep down the groan that had snaked its way up his throat, unkempt and tired. Hank's palms scratch against his beard before pushing against his forehead, finally pressing against his closed eyes.

What a goddamn mess.

On cue, Hank's phone vibrates again. 

> [Connor:]  I look forward to our continued cooperation.

He reads it, then turns out of the DPD parking structure, content with never looking at his phone again. Or at least until he'd had a nice, long shower, a microwave meal, and at least two ear-scratch sessions with Sumo. It's only a pity he was going to have to deal with it again the next day, for god knows how long.

 

-

 

For a lesser man, the events of the day might have driven them to the bottle. 

For Hank, that didn't mean much, because he was going to drink regardless.

It wasn't _planned_ , because planning insinuated it wasn't a regular occurrence, which for him, it certainly was. Hank barely thought about it when he grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a glass, downing one before settling down on the couch. He'd just showered, a towel still draped over his shoulders to stave off any droplets, and with his one _decent human being_ activity for the night fulfilled, it left Hank free to indulge in his nightly vices— a few of them, anyway. Leaning back into the worn cushions, he covered his eyes with the back of his hand, half-full whiskey glass hanging off the fingertips of his other.

It was all so absurd, even for him.

Historically, Hank's life had moved in rapid bursts, accelerating faster and faster until it suddenly exploded— followed by a period of stagnancy, until it saw fit to burst once again, out of nowhere, like the bright crackle of a firework you knew was coming, but managed to surprise you anyway. And like clockwork, it had repeated itself: his time in the academy, meeting his now ex-wife, Cole's birth. The Red Ice busts, making lieutenant... and—

—And Cole's death.

If he had to guess, nowadays it was the whole thing with the Android revolution, drinking himself to liver failure, and whatever the _hell_ was happening at the DPD with Perkins and that Android, Connor.

It wasn't hard to see it was all leading to something, the fuse already lit and trickling up toward its climax, because by now, Hank knew how to spot it. All that remained was the question of what was going to give _first_. He had his guesses.

The dull vibrate of Hank's phone across the couch brings him out of his thoughts with an abruptness that can only be ironic because he doesn't need to look at it to know who it is. Who else would be bothering him at this hour, let alone at all? Fowler certainly wasn't going to text him if he'd fucked up. That pleasure was strictly reserved for angry phone calls thirty minutes to an hour after Hank had left the station or a similar amount of time after when he was supposed to have arrived.

Hank has already mentally talked himself up to actually respond, this time, wondering if a good ole' _fuck off_ would put it through the android's head that he wasn't in the mood to make friends, now, or ever.

But it's not a text.

> _ >> [YP.tv:] Now Live: Coin_Trick: Short Stream..._

He sucks in a breath and stares.

If ever there were a way to make his night worse, out of all the god-awful things that had happened in the past week, it was _this_. To give a reminder that the one thing that had temporarily brightened up his shitty excuse for an existence, no matter how shameful it may have been to him on some personal level, was also now inextricably tied to everything _else_.

The glass of whiskey gets pushed shakily onto the stand next to the couch.

_Don't do it._

Then he snatches it back up a moment later, throwing it back— only to pour another, drinking that too.

_Don't do it, you sonofabitch._

Hank takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He'd read somewhere that it was supposed to be calming. It wasn't, really, but he'd started doing it as a habit anyway.

In, out. In, out.

_Don't do it, you fuckin—_

Hank slams the glass down onto the side table, standing in the same movement. He doesn't try suppress the sway of his weight on his way over to the desk his laptop is on because he has no one to fool. The electronic flips open beneath a yank much too hard for the poor piece of technology. He doesn't need to navigate to Conn— _Coin-Trick's_ stream, because it was still open from the last time he'd watched it.

The screen immediately flashes to life. Coin-trick is sitting in front of the camera, which is at the same somewhat-above view it had been during the private stream— Hank can feel his heart pick up immediately as his eyes take in the man's already-bare torso, elbows resting on his bent knees. It gets worse when the audio connects.

"-ought since my broadcasts will be erratic, I could at least make them something worthwhile to you all. But I'll have to think about it."

Fuck. It _was_ the same voice. But of course, it was— Hank had seen his face, after all. There was something off from _Connor_ , though, that it takes the other speaking again to put his finger on it.

_"_ I would appreciate any and all of your suggestions. Don't be shy," Coin-trick's voice dips warmly, and Hank can imagine the smile that must be pulling up the corners of his mouth, "You'll find I'm very open-minded."

He sounds warm, personable. Seductive, in an awkward sort of way, even— though it's the last word Hank would like to admit comes to mind of when Coin-trick moves one of his hands, running it up and down the inside of his thigh.

It's the same voice, but nothing like the man who had mused about an android's suicide just hours before, or rattled off statistics like he'd been speaking them all his life, which given he was an android, he probably had. It sounds... human.

_"_ Oh," Coin-trick says in that same, weird voice, "Twink Lover Nineteen-eighty-five, welcome back."

Though it was a simple greeting, and one that Coin-Trick repeats for several other users at various points, in Hank's mind, all he could hear was the same voice that had breathed, _I had hoped it would be someone like you._

Hank was no fool, but how could this be the same man— no, machine— who had told him with a sterile, factual tone, _I'm capable of analysis, pre-construction, and reconstruction at a previously unprecedented level?_ With an LED that spun visually like a vintage computer mouse pointer might upon freezing, whose analytical sensors were located on his _tongue_.

Coin-trick's hand, which had been darting back and forth to massage his inner thighs over loose, dark pants, moves inward. Hank has to consciously remember to breathe when the other starts rubbing over the front of his pants, leaning back in his seat to prop his hips forward, legs spreading sideways to make room, not for his sake, but his _viewers'_.

A rush of shame runs through Hank like electricity when he feels his stomach clench in arousal at the sight. His fists ball on his desk where they're resting beside his laptop, trying to will himself with every ounce of his dwindling control to just shut his computer, go take another shower— cold, this time— and go to bed.

" _'Am I...'_ " Coin-trick says in a tone that indicates he's reading someone's chat message— _hard_ is clearly the word left out, because he blatantly cups himself through his pants, emphasizing the form through the material, "It does seem that way, doesn't it?"

He says it like it's a pleasant surprise.

Hank shouldn't be watching this. Getting out now be the smart thing to do, for many reasons, both professionally and personally. Even if those things weren't worth much to him anymore, _not much_ still meant _something_. It was entirely within his control even in his inebriated state to make that decision for himself, he should be fully capable of choosing to do the right thing.

So Hank does the only thing he's actually capable of doing, and that was _make things worse_. He picks up his phone, opening the chat he'd refused to respond to earlier, and types with one hand, his other gripping his desk until his knuckles are white.

> [Hank:] Hey scrapmetal

"Should I show you...?" Coin-trick murmurs in question to the screen and his viewers, Hank included, now pumping a loose fist around himself through his pants. Arousal prickles under Hank's skin, heady and unheeding of what was _best_ for him. To his— well, it wasn't completely accurate to say horror at, because Hank is feeling a lot of things right now— Connor responds immediately.

> [Connor:] Yes, lieutenant?

Hank's eyes flick back and forth between his phone and the stream, where Coin-trick is still touching himself in slow, long movements, hips gently rocking forward and back with the motion of his hand. It takes a lot of effort for Hank not to fat-finger his response, drawing in a ragged breath and distantly thanking his phone's automatic corrective function.

> [Hank:] Still at the station? I think I left my jacket at my desk, you see it?

He drops a hand to his lap, not quite committing to what he'd desperately like to do when Coin-trick smoothly presses his free hand down against the waist of his pants, exposing the obvious answer to the viewers' previous question. But it pushes him damn close.

> [Connor:] You didn't leave it at the station, you had it on when you left.
> 
> [Connor:] You did, however, leave behind two dirty coffee cups and half a donut.

Coin-trick's hand circled around himself, first loose, then tight, moving in full, shameless strokes, his erection flushed in harsh contrast to where his hand moved over it. 

Hank breathes hard, lips parted. The towel he'd slung over his shoulders earlier falls onto the floor, having drifted when he wasn't paying attention. He doesn't even notice it drop from his shoulders, still glancing to and from each screen.

> [Connor:] Do you need anything else, lieutenant? 

...The text came through at the same time Coin-trick huffs, quiet and marveling, "Admittedly, I... I don't think I'll last long like this, knowing you're all..." 

> [Hank:] No

Hank's hand inched over his thigh, a sound almost pained bursting from his lips when he finally grinds the heel of his palm over the stiffness of his dick through his sweatpants, giving in.

"Fuck," Hank curses under his breath, phone slipping out of his hand as he shoves a shaking hand under the waistband of his sweats, wrapping a palm around his cock. The touch makes him hiss, makes it obvious he isn't going to last long, either. The tight coil of arousal deep in his belly has almost completely overridden the shame and guilt Hank might have previously felt to be sitting there, jerking off quickly and desperately, only a pang in the back of his mind.

Even that disappears when Coin-trick makes a delicate, affected sound, stomach tensing while he rubbed his palm quickly over the crown of his dick. In truth, Hank was already in a place beyond _overlooking_ the moral grounds of his current actions, wound up and ready to snap. Time passes in an instant when his eyes are glued to the screen, taking in every minute shift of Coin-trick's body on the monitor. A strained, low groan is bitten back by his teeth against his lip as the other approached a visible precipice, Coin-trick's lean body soon going taut.

"Ah—" Coin-trick gasps weakly, the sound mixed with the feverish jerk of the other's hand rapidly becoming dirtied by white sending Hank barreling over the edge, a strained moan escaping his bitten lip insistently. 

Some moments later, Hank slumps against his desk, leaning on his clean hand to stop him from collapsing entirely, still panting and shivering with the aftershocks of his peak. Coin-trick's voice buzzes in the background somewhere, but it takes him longer than he'd like to admit to collect himself enough to make heads or tails of it, the full brunt of the Black Lamb now washing over him.

"...ank you for joining me, I _greatly_ appreciated your company."

Coin-trick gives a little, stilted wave toward the camera, and the stream ends.

Taking a long breath in, and a longer one out, the lieutenant gingerly leans down to grab the towel that had fallen from his shoulders, cleaning his hands with it. His tired eyes catch an unread message on his phone— from around the same time he'd gotten the other texts from Connor, a deep and sobering resignation driving him to read it now instead of later.

> [Connor:] Have a pleasant evening, lieutenant. I'll see you at the station tomorrow. 

Hank presses his forehead to the cool surface of his desk and groans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank, whispering to himself: "That's him.. that's the puppetmaster that cursed my dick."
> 
> This chapter should have ended like four times throughout, but I just kept going, sorry. :"D  
> Yell at me in twitter Jericho! @rk69420


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may potentially post the second half of this debacle tomorrow if I get it done in time! It was getting too long to stick into one chapter.

Hank chews on the inside of his lip, shifting from foot to foot. The observation room was quiet, dark, and stuffy— didn't get much air, with how much they'd had it closed, as of late. The combination was bearable if a little discomforting, under normal circumstances. Unfortunately for him, Hank is not alone: Gavin stands at one side of him, arms folded against his chest, narrowed eyes on the glass and body radiating with open contempt.

Chris is there, too, he guesses.— But Chris wasn't the problem.

"What's taking him so long?" Gavin sneers, gaze following where Connor paces beyond the one-way glass. It hasn't been that long either, only about thirty seconds. Hank can understand why time may slowing to a hellish stop, however, because standing so close to the other detective was personally already giving him an ulcer.

"Who invited you, again?" Hank grumbles, shifting his stance and flicking on the wall speaker as Connor approached the table at the center of the room.

—With Fowler's permission, Connor has stepped in for an interrogation.

Hank had initially protested, of course— Connor wasn't even a real cop if you stopped to think about it. He didn't have a badge, let alone a gun. Sure, he was supposedly in some agreement with the FBI, but Hank wasn't certain of the implications there, either. Regardless, Fowler had cowed at Connor's polite inquiry, spouting something about his many qualifications on the topic, the profusive pros, and the extremely minor cons. He's half inclined to believe Fowler had just gotten uncomfortable in the face of such a confusing mix of sincerity and humble bragging and agreed just to put an end to it.

Hank could relate, in that case. He'd been feeling that way all the time, the past few days. Connor was nothing if not an irritatingly hard worker, no matter how monotonous or repetitive detective work could be. It was enough to irk the lieutenant— not that it was hard, these days— but also to begrudgingly allow him to take on tasks that would have taken Hank twice as long.

"What, paranoid your little android's gonna show you up?" Gavin leans his hip against the wall below the window, grinning. "Not that it's hard."

Hank is about to say something distinctly in breach of multiple HR policies, but Connor's voice from the other room silences them both.

"Mr. Sheffield," Connor acknowledges cordially, arms hanging open at his sides, shoulders back. Hank instantly recognizes it as a show of power and confidence, to look approachable but stalwart, "Do you know why you're still here at the station?"

'Mr. Sheffield'— Howard Sheffield, that is— stared sullenly across the table at Connor, saying nothing. It doesn't deter Connor any, who bends slightly to pick up a folder on the table, opening it to scan its contents. It's a show, because Hank knows Connor had already downloaded and analyzed the files earlier.

Two androids dismantled for parts, stripped of their components and copper wiring, the rest left along the river under some shrubs. One was able to be rebooted into an empty casing, thanks to a backup— but the other wasn't so lucky. The one left had lost memory data of the crime, and had refused to offer anything but verbal testimony. Connor had frowned at Hank when he'd told him but said nothing further.

Connor went through the motions, confirming Sheffield's home and workplace, family (or lack thereof), and his previous problems with the law. It drones on for several minutes, Connor's eyes turned downward at the folder in his hands while he paces very slowly in front of the table. Sheffield gives little to no response.

Hank knows what's coming when Connor's voice perks up a bit, conversational, even friendly. 

"Prior to the events of November 11, 2038, you owned two androids— a CX100 model, and an AX400 model, is that correct?"

Mr. Sheffield nods slowly, though his eyes remained hard. Hank notes his hands clasping and unclasping under the table, where they're cuffed together.

"They helped you with your scrap work, I've been told. They were especially useful with dismantling heavy automobile parts, something I imagine you have quite a bit of expertise with, given your profession."

Connor looks up from the file.

"Unfortunately, several days ago they were discovered dismantled along the Detroit River. I'm sure this was a shock to you, given how instrumental they were in running your business."

"Tool marks identical to those used at your shop were found on the parts no longer intact, on both models. You wouldn't happen to know if any of your employees had anti-android sentiments, would you? Anything that could help us out?"

Gavin snorts from beside Hank. That sector was well known for its distrust of androids, given the amount of the workforce that had switched to using them instead of human workers. Old news.

Connor continues to ask polite but directed questions of Sheffield, who says little, but his non-answers spoke volumes instead: twitching in his seat, his jaw tensing and relaxing only to tense again, the quiet shuffle of his feet closer to his chair. All signs of discomfort, all undoubtedly part of Connor's method.

He sets the file down on the table, open on photos of the android's disassembled parts, and slides it over to Sheffield.

"I understand why you might protect your human employees," Sheffield's eyes flick to Connor's LED as the android speaks, "and given that your androids were doing thrice their amount of work in a day, you may feel sympathetic to their cause. I understand, therefore I'm going to let you know that your testimony will no longer be necessary because I have theirs."

Sheffield blinks in confusion, his body tensing up.

"What?" He croaks suspiciously, voice scratchy and dry.

Connor smiles gently, "It's as I say. Fortunately, the androids were disassembled, but not so much that they couldn't be recovered. You could call it one of the _perks_ of an android, Mr. Sheffield."

Hank frowns. It's a bluff, partway.

"Yes, they were able to tell me exactly what happened— and, because they're androids, and not limited by the same trauma reflexes that human victims may have— they were able to do so in perfect detail."

Sheffield had looked stressed before, but it had been nothing compared to his posture, now: sweaty, pale, barely shaking.

"Would you like to hear?" Connor asks simply, and on cue, pulls a handheld recorder from his pocket.

Sheffield has gone from looking like a sheet to turning very red, and now stammers.

"Thats— that's not necessary, I don't want to—"

Connor presses a button, and a panicked voice starts to play. 

"Mr. Sheffield, he's the one who—" The voice of the AX400 rang loud and clear in the interrogation room, and even as Sheffield started to try to talk over it, there's no hiding the gruesome details that pour out of the recorder. Maimed, disassembled while they were still conscious. Both Hank and Gavin shift in their stances, it was obvious this was over.

Connor is unmoving as Sheffield shakes in his chair, words of blame spilling from his lips, trying to incriminate others, but mostly doing so to himself. When he's had enough, Connor slams his palm onto the table, expression fervent, his voice strong.

"You stripped them of whatever material was useful to you, then threw the rest away, just like they were trash, didn't you?" His eyes narrow, "How much did you get for their biocomponents? Was it worth it, to take it upon yourself to destroy their lives?" 

Connor's voice rises, "What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Sheffield?"

The change in Connor's demeanor— he was so used to the polite, but firm bedside manner, the kind that had gotten tips from the majority of their interviews one way or another over the past week— sends a chill down Hank's spine. It was enough to push Sheffield over the edge, that's for certain.

"They should have just done what I told them to. They wanted money, they wanted— like they were _people._ " Sheffield hisses angrily, eyes bloodshot and face drawn tight, "Fucking trash, everyone one of them, I just put them where they belonged. Just like you do!"

Connor's voice is low, but it isn't any less powerful.

"The only trash here is you, Mr. Sheffield. It's only unfortunate that your one life of comfort had to be traded for their two," He steps away from the table, nodding toward the glass that the interrogation was over, "Unlike those androids, a junkyard couldn't find anything useful in you, even if they tried."

Hank glances at Gavin, who is rolling his eyes and stalking toward the exit, clearly satisfied (or more likely, dissatisfied) with whatever he'd come to see. Chris wordlessly takes a step for the door to collect the suspect when there's suddenly a shout from inside the room. The lieutenant startles and surges with Chris for the door upon seeing that Sheffield had jumped to his feet and lunged at Connor, pressing his cuffs to the android's neck as he shouted.

"You, you piece of shit—" Sheffield spat at Connor's neutral expression, who grabbed the man's wrists, LED flashing yellow, "You think I wouldn't do the same thing to you? Any of them? You're dead meat the second you're not usef—"

Gavin jogs back into the room at the sound of shouting, the three of them busting into the room just in time to see Connor sweep the man's feet out from under him with a sharp kick, the other crashing to the ground with a groan. Connor's body follows him down, one hand jabbing down against the side of his cheek with crushing strength and a pop that undoubtedly meant something was broken, the android's shoe pressing hard down onto Sheffield's back to pin him in place.

"Jesus Christ," Hank huffs at the scene as Chris and Gavin gather Sheffield up, "'The fuck you think you're doing, you moron?"

"Come on, fucker, got a nice place for you," Gavin takes hold of the man's cuffed wrists tight enough to make him yelp, pushing him forward toward the door, He makes sure to more or less collide with Connor, who had stood and was brushing off his jacket, LED now a calm blue. It flashes yellow for a second as the push knocks him to the side, but he says nothing, turning to Hank. Chris excuses himself with a high-brow expression that reads, _I'm not touching that._

"I think we can deem that a success," He supplies brightly.

"No kidding," The lieutenant shoves his hands into his jacket, mouth working around the backward compliment he'd normally give here, but bites down the second he felt it coming, "Where'd you get the tape?"

"It was fake," Connor replies simply, and much to his bafflement continues, "I knew getting him to confess would be an easy task, but I wanted to see if he'd implicate anyone else first, just in case there were others involved. Someone like that never goes down quietly if there were additional perpetrators, so I emulated one of the victim's voices. It can't be used as evidence against him, but his detailed admission of guilt can."

"Well, shit," Hank whistles, raising a brow, "S'that legal, Mister FBI Agent?"

"I'm not an FBI agent," Connor corrects, picking up the folder and tucking it under an arm, "Just here to help."

They head out of the interrogation room and toward the main office, and Hank doesn't need to be familiar with Connor to tell he's pleased by the slight bounce in his step. It manages to rub offonto him a little, and despite himself, his lips curl into a rueful grin.

"Yeah, well you 'negotiated' the shit outta his face, that's for sure."

Connor makes a contemplative sound, voice serious, "You never know, it could be an improvement."

Hank freezes in his tracks, turning around. Connor stops one stride's length away, looking owlish, LED flickering yellow briefly at the sudden stop.

"...Did you,“ Hank gestures, scrunching his face up in accusal, ”Did you just call a suspect _ugly_?"

The android blinked and tilts his head, one eyelid twitching a bit below his stray tuft of hair, but expression otherwise blank.

"Are you disagreeing with my assessment, lieutenant?"

"Holy shit," he curses, turning back toward his desk in a bluster, "What kinda sick fuck programs a bot to be _petty_?"

Connor opens his mouth to reply, but Hank throws an accusing finger in his direction just as fast.

" _Don't_."

A few hours pass, during which time Hank gets comfortable at his desk— as comfortable as he could be at the station, anyway, given that he felt like he was under Connor's watch at all times, even when the other wasn't necessarily looking right at him. Connor had a brutal work ethic, doing the majority of the paperwork from the myriad of busy-work they'd accomplished during the week, mostly consisting of follow-up interviews and surveillance of previous android-related cases.

The fast pace Connor commanded had made the whole situation easier, in a way. Hank still went about things in his own time, for the most part, and he'd eaten or taken coffee alone more often than not, for that reason. But, that was normal. The handful of situations where Connor _had_ tagged along were the black sheep, but Connor had stayed carefully polite save the random question or five, and as a result, they'd only tussled a few times, typically where Hank had bubbled over with pent-up aggression or the remnants of a bad night. 

He'd had less of those, the last two weeks, too. It didn't comfort him much, because Hank's bad days were like old friends— it didn't matter how long they were gone from his life, because when they were back, it felt like nothing had ever changed. Like the lingering touch of a lover long gone, the weight, the sadness— on some level, it never faded entirely, no matter how bearable they became. It buzzed in the back of his mind in the shape of a raincloud, dark and heavy with intention. 

Some subjects of discussion (Connor poised a question, Hank grunted an answer or said nothing at all) needled that feeling within him, and it wisely wasn't brought up again, like Hank's ex-wife. Others, he dogged him about relentlessly— Hank's grease-laden diet, for one, had resulted in him nearly strangling a paper soda cup to an explosive death when Connor had the nerve to point out his burger ' _had the caloric content of the average male's entire daily intake_ '. In lieu of that, Hank had elected to shove the entire remaining half of his burger into his mouth at once. It was the moral victory that mattered.

Hank looks across the span of their desks, to Connor's concentrated expression, his fingers flicking across his console with disturbing speed. Sometimes he just placed his hand against the screen and accessed it all that way, but he got the sense Connor knew that unsettled some folks after a while.

Connor was looking at him, now, the soft, deep brown of his eyes showing no hesitation at the contact.

"Do you need something, lieutenant?"

"Nah. Just resting my eyes," Hank bites back, looking away with annoyance, caught, "Thought if I looked at something really boring, it'd help."

All things considered, it hadn't been _as horrible_ as he'd felt it would be, Fowler-be-damned. Compared to that morning he'd thrown Connor against an elevator wall, he was running at a solid six out of ten, just one shy from his typical levels of bitterness. 

"Is that so," Connor says as more of a statement, and tilts his head, fingers pausing their previously unending beat, "If you are experiencing eye-strain, might I suggest sitting farther away from your console or taking a short break?"

Hank scoffs, going back to ignoring him.

If there was one thing Hank hated, however, it was the itch of tension in the back of his mind when Connor was around, and sometimes when he wasn't, too. Like Connor was always on the edge of saying or doing something that pushed Hank too hard, just like every partner he'd ever been saddled with did sooner rather than later. Him being an android only put Hank more on edge, that simple fact often catching him with an ice-cold alarm that shot right down to his core, a harsh reminder every time he caught himself nearly forgetting.

There were other things, too. Coin-trick hadn't streamed in the several days since _that_ night. Hank tried to put it out of mind.

Predictably, he'd failed. His phone had buzzed with a notification— that he'd ignored after seeing the title, because Connor had been seated across from him at his console— and it had stuck around in the back of Hank's mind for hours. He gets a chance to covertly glance at it when Connor excuses himself to wrap up Sheffield's admission of guilt, eyes flicking from his phone to where he could see Fowler and Connor in the former's office. It would be so easy... Hank flicks the notification, looking at the title again.

> _> > [YP.tv:] Post: Coin_Trick: Question [Time Sensitive]_

Hank blinks. What could he possibly be asking? ' _Hey, do you want to see me jerk off again?'_

He looks across the room to Fowler's office again, then behind him. Turning on the privacy panel of his console— because who the fuck had thought clear console displays were a good idea? He'd hated them since the moment the first iteration been installed ten or so years back— Hank quickly opens his email in _private mode_ on the smallest window possible on the screen, making sure the volume was muted out of paranoia rather than reality. You never truly knew when the Great Porn Popup was going to strike next.

Clicking through the link in his email, he quickly scans the content of the post, thankful that Coin-trick had a basic and blank profile save for his icon, which was Coin-trick's torso, shirt half-unbuttoned. All that really meant was that it only _felt_ obvious he was navigating a porn website at his job, and didn't actually _look_ obvious. He was a goddamn police lieutenant, he'd had to look at weirder shit at his job before. He leaves his finger poised over the 'x' on the window though, just in case.

> _> > [YP.tv:] _
> 
> _Post: Question [Time Sensitive]_
> 
> _by: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Hello, everyone. I apologize for my absence. I have been putting some thought into what I had mentioned briefly during my last broadcast— that I would like to show appreciation for the time and attention you have graciously given my endeavors, among other things. Unfortunately, Idon't have reliable space in my schedule for another private session, and I also don't wish to require monetary support to access this gesture, as that is not my priority— nor is it the same content as a personal experience, if I'm being sincere._
> 
> _I have come to the conclusion that I shouldn't have been the sole individual deciding this from the very start. So I'd like to ask of you:_
> 
> _What would you like me to do for you?_
> 
> _I'll collect the most common answers I am comfortable performing and return with a poll at a later time._
> 
> _I implore you to be_ _honest. I want to please you to the best of my ability. Thank you._
> 
> _(:_

Hank scrolls two replies in before he's exiting the page with the force of a tidal wave, eyes almost bugging out of his head. Yeah, definitely not reading any more of that at the station, holy _shit_.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling deeply, fingertips drumming on the desktop, and looks across the room to the office, again, eying the side of Connor's face. His LED was hidden, so who knew how it was going— not that Hank felt he had the best grasp of how that junk worked, either, save for  _blue means go, red means you have fucked up._ He looks down the line of Connor's body, the way his suit laid over his form, his straight back, his slim torso. 

Sure, he was wearing clothes, but it  _felt_ like the spitting image of Coin-trick, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. That thought always circled back around to the issue of _timing,_ though. He'd never seen Connor hide a damn thing at the station, and the other night when Hank had texted him...  Needless to say, if it really _was_ Connor, he sure knew how to multitask. But that still didn't explain the overlap entirely, as Hank had seen both of his hands clearly occupied when he'd—

Hank hurriedly cuts off the rest of that memory, trying not to make a face when the android in question leaves Fowler's office, instantly finding his eyes from across the room, to which the lieutenant's response is to become very preoccupied with the post-it notes on his cubical divider.

"We have a new case," Connor sets the folder down gently on Hank's desk, not bothering to open it. He'd probably already uploaded it all into that virtual cranium of his.

"Another one? Christ. Can't he keep it in his pants for a day?"

Connor's lips twitch in humor, but he's resolute, "According to Captain Fowler, it shouldn't take long. It's a follow-up interview with someone who may be witness to an android assault— their previous owner, in fact."

Hank notes that Connor hasn't bothered sitting down, choosing the alternative of doing that _thing_ where he stands uncomfortably close, like a pet might when they wanted attention. It meant they were doing this _now,_ as opposed to 'after lunch,' or maybe 'at least thirty minutes after he'd watched Connor break a man's cheekbone'. He leveled a dead glare on Connor for a full five-seconds to test his resolve, but he just looks at him with that damned doe-eyed expression, not budging an inch. 

"She is quite elderly, lieutenant. We should make haste."

"For fuck's sake, " A broken man, Hank stands from his desk and grabs his coat and keys, doing his best to ignore the visibly pleased look on Connor's face out of the corner of his eye, choosing to focus on imagining what disgustingly greasy thing he was going to put in his body in the guise of a meal later.

"She's not gonna croak the second we leave her alone," Hank grumbles under his breath, "what about me? Getting too old for this shit."

Connor leans in as they walk through the lobby, the folder the lieutenant had very pointedly left on his desk tucked under one arm safely.

"If I may, lieutenant, for a man of your age, you're quite—"

Oh, no.

"— _Connor,_ " Hank hisses, glancing halfway at the DPD secretary they pass, who smiles at the both of them. Fuck, what was her name? Cheryl? Meredith?

"Are you alright?" Connor questions without looking at Hank, returning the secretary's smile graciously, "Your heart-rate has significantly increased."

"Connor, do me a favor."

"Lieutenant?"

He sighs. "First off— quit it with the _lieutenant_ thing all the time, I'm not dead— _yet_ — and you're not reading my goddamn obituary. Everyone else calls me _Hank_ unless they're being a piece of shit. And, second, about that other thing?"

"Yes?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Connor blinks, and for a second Hank considers grabbing Connor by the face and pulling, because he knows Connor doesn't _need_ to blink, not really.

"Got it... Hank." 

\---

"Her name is Mary Jennings. Age seventy-two, widow of Charles Jennings. She worked for the Corktown Ministry up until her husband's death— heart attack— after which she retired," Connor rattles off from Hank's passenger seat, eyes on the road, and not on the folder still closed on his lap, "She has no children, and lived alone, aside from the missing PL600 model, self-designation: Jakob. Her emergency contact lists a niece, Cherry Jennings."

"And the niece?" Hank asks, turning the wheel with a jerk and cursing as a driverless car zips past him. Dinnertime traffic was still a mess, didn't matter how many years passed.

"Officer Brown spoke to her last week. She'll be moving in within the next couple days to assist Mrs Jennings with her living arrangements."

"Bitch of a hand to be dealt at that age. What's it that you said happened with the 'droid, again? Guy went crazy on a neighbor then booked it?"

Connor pauses, and Hank can see his LED flicker between blue and yellow in his peripheral.

"...Yes, that is what the neighbor claims happened," Connor starts slowly, turning toward Hank with a tone of hesitation, "the alleged victim, Davey McCaig, had two ribs and his collarbone broken, along with several fingers. He said he got into an argument with Jakob when he refused to leave his property line, and Jakob became violent."

Hank frowns. They pull up to a small split-level home as the sky starts to warm into the pinkish colors signaling the sun lowering, thankfully no snow impeding their way, this time, though some still laid in slushy clumps here and there. The humble property showed signs of age by way of its chipped, faded robin-egg paint, but was otherwise cleanly kept by comparison to others they'd passed. An old-fashioned wooden rocking-chair sat on its porch, and though the grass was wilting in the dull winter sun, a bed of jasmine beside the house still lived with bright green stems, albeit lacking flowers. 

He turns off the engine, finally turning to Connor, who as always met his gaze with disturbing clarity through the color of dark honey.

"What'd Brown make of him?"

"He said Mr. McCaig was very..." Connor purses his lips, "Unpleasant."

"We all know what that smells like," Hank hauls himself out of the driver's seat, the other soon following, "Guess we'll see what granny has to say about it."

"I suppose so."

They pass a metal lawn ornament of a cat on their way to the front door. It was upended as if someone had kicked it, and Connor wordlessly kneels to set it upright again. Hank huffs, ringing the doorbell.

"Hank," Connor says quietly from behind him, arm nearly brushing his own as he steps beside him. Hank tries not to grit his teeth a little at the sound in particular— god knows he'd asked him to call him that, to begin with, "We should be vigilant."

"Yeah."

It doesn't take a leap of imagination to guess why. The android—Jakob—could still be in the area, though not likely to be within the immediate vicinity. It was tough to go far from the only home you'd likely ever known, even in (or perhaps especially because) the current political climate.

After a few minutes, the door creaks open. Mrs. Jennings has short, grey-white hair, its natural texture framing her dark skin in little neat curls. She doesn't open the door all the way, and Hank can't really blame her for it, it was something you got used to as a cop. He shows his badge and tries to talk a little quieter than his usual doorbuster affect.

"I'm Hank Anderson, Mrs. Jennings, with Detroit PD. I believe my, uh," He drops the title for now, and gestures awkwardly toward Connor at his side, " _partner_ talked to you on the phone this morning?"

"Yes, that's right..." She peers at the two of them, but seems more at ease when her eyes land on Connor, for whom she opens the door the rest of the way, revealing her slight but warmly-wrapped frame. Mrs. Jennings extends a frail hand toward him, "You must be Mr. Connor."

Connor smiles, taking her hand gently, "Hello Ma'am, it's nice to meet you. Thank you for taking the time to see us."

Hank tries not to gawk. Mrs. Jennings lets them in after that, and they end up settling down at her dining room table, Connor at Hank's side, and Mrs. Jennings sitting opposite of them. She drinks out of a small decorated teacup, its matching twins set in front of Hank and Connor, filled with steaming floral tea. It feels infinitely smaller in Hank's hand when he takes a sip of the junk, just to be polite.

"Sorry to bother you, Ma'am, we just have a few questions and then we'll be on our way."

"Mrs. Jennings, I understand the PL600— Jakob, as he calls himself— did the majority of your care-taking," Connor sets down the case folder in front of him, folding his hands over it, "It must be difficult without him here."

Hank glances around once her attention is focused on Connor, whose own is also focused on the old woman. She had a nice house. It was meticulously clean but still managed to look warm and lived-in. He vaguely finds himself wondering why she'd never had children because it seemed just the type of dwelling you'd call _Grandma's House._

"I'm getting by," She says, a sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, lips thin, "But I'd be getting along better with Jakob here."

"About Jakob," Hank sets down the teacup carefully, "Can you tell us what happened?"

Her gaze falls to the floral lace tablecloth below her saucer, "I don't know, entirely. But I'm sure whatever happened, Jakob didn't mean it, that _man_ must have provoked him."

"By 'that man', do you mean McCaig?" Hank asks, exchanging a sidelong look at Connor, "What do you mean, 'provoked'?"

"Yes, him— he always disliked being my neighbor, ever since my husband was alive. They were old colleagues at the same company, you see. But... after Jakob came to live with me, he just seemed so angry... so angry, all the time."

"Do you have any idea why he may have been angry with Jakob? Something he did? Or— something that would make Jakob violent?" Hank already has a pretty good idea.

"McCaig, Davey," Connor confirms, LED cycling blue, "He was laid off from the tech company Mr. Jennings worked at in favor of a more productive android unit. Mr. Jennings stayed on as a supervisor, despite initially being Mr. McCaig's inferior."

"Yes, that's right," Mrs. Jennings frowns, sipping her tea, "But that wasn't Charlie's fault, just like it wasn't Jakob's or those other androids' faults. Maybe it wasn't right, but they were only doing their jobs."

"Definitely doesn't sound like the guy you wanna borrow some sugar from, that's for sure," Hank muses with a grimace, and she smiles faintly, chuckling. 

"Ma'am, may I ask you a personal question?" Connor straightens up, tilting his face just barely toward Hank, who can see the telltale yellow glow without turning, "What is your cat's name?"

Mrs. Jennings pauses, looking confused. "My... My what?"

"Oh, my mistake. A small dog, then?" Connor supplies, still polite. She puts her teacup down with a _clink_ , frowning.

"I don't have any pets, not since my Francis and Merryweather passed away last year... but they were budgies, not cats or dogs— birds. Are you alright, Mr. Connor?"

"I see. I thought you were alone," Connor turns his face toward the stairwell they'd seen on the way in, "but it seems we're intruding on your company."

A pang of alarm settles in Hank's gut like a stone. "Connor...?"

"Ma'am," Connor asks gently, meeting her eyes with quiet sincerity, "is Jakob still here?"

Mrs. Jennings' hands lightly start to shake against the table, her mouth working around an answer. She's about to speak when there's a loud crash from upstairs. 

Connor is on his feet before Hank can even blink, launching himself toward the stairs.

Hank clambers out of his chair, rounding the corner just in time to nearly get knocked over by someone throwing themselves back down the staircase, colliding hard with his shoulder. Blue, panicked eyes, blonde hair. It's a PL600, who's out the front door before Hank can even shout, with Connor sprinting after him a second later, LED flashing yellow.

"It's Jakob, lieutenant— I'm pursuing!" Connor shouts over his shoulder, already out of sight.

Hank throws a glance at Mrs. Jennings, who looks to be in shock, mouth parted in horror. But he can't leave Connor to do this by himself— the guy had been violent, for reasons they don't yet know. He breaks into a run in the direction the two had gone, seeing his partner cleanly vault over a neighbor's back fence, expression focused. Panting, Hank runs alongside the set of homes, barking an update into his radio before catching sight of Connor in hot pursuit through traffic and into an overgrown park down the opposite side of the road.

"Detroit PD!" Hank shouts, gritting his teeth and forcing himself into a sprint in the park's direction, waving his badge at his side to get through the screeching traffic. He throws his feet over the park barrier, lifting them high as he runs to try not to get tangled in the wilted, cold-bitten weeds crunching underfoot. At the opposite end of the park, Jakob and Connor are already in physical combat, the latter having just shot a punch into the PL600's jaw, who is thrown to the ground and clambers backward. Their movements are faster than Hank can even begin to wrap his head around, but he reaches to his side, popping open his gun holster to grab his pistol.

"Jakob, give yourself up, we just want to talk to you!" Connor reasons, taking a small step forward but freezing when the tousled android produces a pistol of his own from his open jacket. "I promise we—"

"I'm not going to let you destroy me," He gasps, eyes wild, "He deserved what he got, that bastard _deserved_ it for how he treated Mrs. Mary, I don't care what you say!"

Jakob tries to push himself back and out of the way of Connor's sight, his heels kicking up the molded weeds in the soft earth, LED flashing red. His hands scramble over the grip of the pistol, visibly shaking, and Connor spreads his arms at his sides entreatingly to seem less like a threat, his own LED flashing yellow. 

"Jakob, drop the gun— we only want to find out what happened," Hank barks, shuffling a step or two forward with his weapon hanging low, eyes on the pistol in the other's hand, _still_ _aimed at Connor._ Adrenaline surges in his system. Connor is much closer to Jakob— a shot from that close could kill a man instantly. Hank takes another step forward. Connor's eyes dart toward him suddenly, LED flashing red.

"Hank, it's no use, his stress levels are already—"

Several things happen all at once.  Jakob looks in his direction and spots his gun, eyes widening and a panicked sound ripping from his lips. Connor surges toward Hank, who raises his pistol at the same time. Jakob squeezes the trigger first— two shots ring out, loud and ugly in the clear winter air. 

Hank sucks in an unsteady breath, eyes wide. 

Connor falls backward against his chest, and when the lieutenant catches him one-handed with an arm around his chest, he can feel his palm immediately come into contact with something wet. He spots blue against the white of his shirt before Connor's fingers are closing over his hand to snatch his pistol away, raising it in the same motion to fire once. 

The bullet strikes Jakob in the center of his forehead, who slumps to the ground. 

Connor drops the gun and sags against him, face tilting up toward him to speak something urgently, but Hank can't hear it over ringing between his ears— can't parse it when his eyes are locked on the blue that seeped outward from beneath Connor's shirt.

"Connor...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...WELL, THAT'S A BUMMER...
> 
> What do YOU want to see on Coin-Trick's appreciation stream? Hit me up in the comments or on twitter @rk69420 and I may use it for the poll! 
> 
> Someone also asked if I had a ko/fi, so I threw one up there, as well. :) Hope you enjoyed, see you with the other half tomorrow if I can manage it!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh, so about my estimate that this chapter would be a short second part to the last one... my hand slipped on the "short" part and instead wrote the longest chapter to date. Sorry about that.

Connor felt too heavy against Hank's chest, but it had nothing to do with mass. 

The Thirium that now stained his palms weighed infinitely more upon his psyche than the synthetic flesh, the titanium frame, every component— all of it combined, now held snugly between both of his arms, equated to nothing if not as a mere vessel for the many parts of the whole he'd quickly come to know as _Connor._ It was _those_ details, the rapid yellow-red-yellow blink of his LED, the twitch at the corner of his warm brown eyes, the movement of his lips into a shape he recognized but heard only as in static-white noise that all culminated into something that shook Hank to his core, a realization he felt sure of:

Connor was dying in his arms.

With the threat now lying motionless in the crushed, sodden grass, Hank could feel his legs beginning to buckle under the weight of his shock when Connor's voice finally reaches him, urgent and strained.

"ank—" Connor's nearly shouts, his fingers scrabbling backward, seeking purchase against his jacket, "Hank!"

Hank blinks, breathing hard. Connor is trying to rise in his arms, trying to straighten his bent legs where he'd half-fallen, his dress shoes sinking into the soft earth just as Jakob's had just a moment before, pushing himself up.

"Con," Hank starts, voice ragged, at a loss. Hauling the heavy android up, Hank presses a hand hard over the bullet's entry-point into his chest to try to stem the bleeding— or whatever that meant, for an android, but to his shocked confusion, Connor immediately makes a frustrated sound, grabbing his hand to try to pull it off.

"Let me go, lieutenant," Though Connor's LED had now stilled to a solid yellow, his hand was smeared with a slick blue streak, a reminder from where the second bullet had grazed his arm. The distant, concentrated look in his eyes evidently surpassed the way his body jittered with weakness, his fingers prying at Hank's hand, "I need to—"

He manages to shake himself out of Hank's grip with a strength that shouldn't be surprising but is, taking two jerky steps toward Jakob's body before he's falling onto his knees in the scraggly, wilted grass.

"I missed his temporal recorder by point-five centimeters," Connor says like he hadn't just been _fucking shot twice_ , pulling himself forward to the fallen android on his hands and knees, LED now only flashing yellow. He reaches out toward Jakob's empty hand, "if I hurry, I can still interface—"

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Connor— _"_ Hank hisses, falling to his knees beside Connor to grab his wrist from across his body, stopping the other from whatever the hell he was planning to do. Connor's unimpeded hand darts up to bury itself in the lieutenant's jacket, using that grip to drag himself into a sitting position, where he faces Hank dead-on.

"There's no time, Hank," his eyes are focused and searching, like they're seeing something that Hank can't— the thought as simultaneously terrifying as it was confusing, "If we don't find out now, we never will!"

Using the hand on Hank's chest as leverage, Connor yanks his wrist away, wrapping his fingers around Jakob's hand.

For the first time, Hank sees Connor interface with another android.

The artificial skin on his hand immediately melded backward at the touch, exposing the white of his true fingers and palm, Jakob's skin doing the same at the spot where they met. Connor's body immediately seizes up, every faux-muscle in his body pulling tight— his fingers balling against Hank's chest, eyes wide and LED blaring solid red.

And as fast as it had happened, it was suddenly over, Connor ripping his hand away with a pained sound, as if burned— the first sound of _pain_ he's ever heard Connor make. Instead, he clutches his forehead and doubles over, fingers still clenched in a tight enough fist on Hank's chest that he can see the white of his knuckles. Feeling otherwise helpless, Hank closes his own hand over it.

Connor's voice is tight and quiet, "He... Jakob did it."

Hank loops his other hand around Connor's back for support when the android's hand falls from his face and to the grass under their legs limply, revealing the distracted panic in his expression, words coming out in a rush, "But it was because McCaig— he was harassing Mrs. Jennings. He threatened to hurt her just to push Jakob until he... McCaig started a fight he couldn't win," Connor's eyes were distant, flicking all over as he stuttered, "And—"

Hank squeezes his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he starts to get a pretty good idea about what _interfacing_ really entailed, "That shit doesn't matter right now, Connor—"

"It does matter," Connor is jolted back to the present, eyes regaining clarity, and even if the change was subtle, Hank could tell it was a look of realization, "Jakob...he was scared, he thought he'd be deactivated for hurting a human."

"Connor, he had a _gun,_ " Hank reasons, "He _shot_ you."

"He was scared," Connor repeated in turmoil, eyes scanning Hank's face "—and I shot him. It was the last thing I...  _he_ felt. Fear."

Hank swallows his words, and Connor looks away, back to Jakob. Hank's eyes follow, taking in the dead android's expression, face slack and eyes still open. Just a little Thirium oozed from the bullet hole in his forehead. Hank reaches out and brushes his eyelids closed, a sense of finality settling in the air as they both sat in silence beneath the bright red and orange sky until police sirens approached.

"C'mon," Hank rasps, starting to get up— hoisting Connor with him by a hand under his arm, who acquiesces this time, "We gotta get you looked at."

"...I'll be fine, lieutenant," Connor drags his eyes from Jakob to Hank, then to where two police cars and an ambulance are pulling up, "My motor systems are...unstable, but as long as I receive care or initiate emergency stasis in the next hour and twenty-two minutes, fifteen-seconds, my current Thirium supply can delay imminent shutdown." 

Hearing it spoken so factually sparks something hot and ugly in Hank's chest, lips pulling into a conflicted frown. The bullets weren't meant for _Connor_ , after all, "For fuck's sake, Connor... what would make you pull that shit?"

Connor just looks at him quizzically, lips thinned into a line before he replies, "He was going to shoot y—"

A sudden wail to their side makes both Hank and Connor's faces jerk toward it, because it wasn't from the police officers who pile out of their cars to their other side— it was from Mrs. Jennings, who has just stumbled into the wilted grass, hands clutched in front of her.

"Jakob," She says, taking shaky steps toward him, face a mask of grief, "Oh no, Jakob, no, no."

Hank tries to shuffle in front of her, to block her view, "Ma'am, you don't want to—"

Mrs. Jennings pushes past the two of them to collapses in front of Jakob's body, her pale lavender slippers already dirtied by the damp, rotten grass. Connor raises a hand after her, as if to touch her for comfort, LED flashing yellow— but drops it soon after, looking away. The component shifts back to a cycling blue.

"Poor boy," Mrs. Jennings murmurs through tears, lifting her frail hands to brush several strands of Jakob's blonde hair away from his face, stroking his cheek, "My poor little man, what have they done to you?"

Officer Chris approaches from their opposite side, grimly taking in the scene: Mrs. Jennings cooing tearful, quiet apologies at Jakob's lifeless body, Connor's blue-sodden shirt, the blue on Hank's hands and clothing. It all spoke volumes, but to what, it likely wasn't immediately clear.

"Christ, Hank, what happened?" He looks them up and down, then waves the paramedics over, "You alright?" 

"Connor needs Chelsea, ASAP," Hank overrides with a gesture, still keeping Connor propped up with an arm around his waist, until they ran a stretcher over into the grass, "He was shot."

Chris nods with a worried look, gesture at Chelsea while he flicked a sidelong glance to Mrs. Jennings, "What about..."

Hank shakes his head at the sight, now having gingerly deposited Connor at the edge of the stretcher. Connor answers, instead.

"...Let her say goodbye. She's innocent," Hank turns back to him when he says it, staring hard where the android's shirt is stuck to the line of his body, soaked in his own Thirium. The lieutenant grits his teeth again, kneeling down to shove his gun back in its holster with more force than was truly necessary.

"I'll be fine, lieutenant," Connor says quietly from the stretcher, where Chelsea is waving a handheld device over his forehead, the numbers on its screen meaning nothing to Hank, "I'm only in need of repairs."

It doesn't help.

"Yeah, well fuck you too," Hank says under his breath, turning away. He scrubs a hand down his face, looking toward Mrs. Jennings and trying to think of a goddamn word he could say to her before moving, without looking back, unable to meet Connor's eyes, "And it's _Hank._ "

\---

It was funny, the way time passed when he was drinking. It either went incredibly fast, or painfully slow, and never the in-between. Whichever type it was typically solidified for him the exact moment he ignored that little voice in his head that said, _better stop now, Hank._

Hank hadn't bothered listening to it for a damn long time, and he wasn't about to start now. He has Jimmy pour him another, swirling it in his hand before downing it, settling on nursing some Scotch, next.

Mrs. Jennings had been a mess, predictably. Hank had stayed with her a long while, in her warm but empty house, after they'd taken Jakob's body away— he'd be "given" back for a proper funeral after the investigation, of course, at her insistence. McCaig would be investigated, but Fowler had already surmised that with Connor's access to Jakob's memories, they'd be able to wrangle him with at _least_ assault, given his attack on Jakob, if not lesser counts of harassment. If it were a year or so later, they'd probably have been able to add _hate crime_ to that, but society always moved too slow for those who needed it the most.

And none of it could bring Jakob back.

Eventually, Mrs. Jennings had held Hank's hand as she cried, and he'd had to struggle to keep down the knot that tightened in his throat at the display, secretly, guiltily feeling thankful when her niece showed up to take over. He'd left Mrs. Jennings and Cherry his card if either of them needed to talk. Said he understood, even if Hank couldn't bring himself to explain why. 

You didn't elaborate to people why you understood what it was like to bury your own children— you just didn't.

Needless to say, it had all put Hank in a mood, in more ways than one.

He scratches a hand through his beard, feeling dizzy on and off, a product of the large amount of alcohol he'd ingested to the small amount of some random appetizer he'd stuffed into his face without thinking, a couple hours previous. Hank had moved from his usual seat at the bar to a booth in the back after someone had had the nerve to ask him if he was _okay_.

' _Okay?'_ Connor had taken a bullet for him—  _two_ , in fact.

And then, he'd acted like it wasn't a big deal. Right before he was carted off to some unknown place, citing the need to go somewhere in particular, because his parts were _too unique_ for Chelsea to properly treat more than in an emergency capacity at the precinct. Yeah, he'd heard them discussing it over the radio, right before he'd spoken to Mrs. Jennings. The bile that rose at the ramifications of that had never completely left, and it rose now, as he took a sip of whiskey. 

_Imminent shutdown,_ Connor had called it. He was pretty sure that meant death. Androids were stronger, smarter, _perfect_ , yet they were still able to do something like _die,_ he knew that, even if Hank could resent androids with every fiber of his being in flashes and sputters, he knew that, he'd always known. Connor had almost died, for him. Two bullets meant for Hank, when the android had probably had it all under control, and he just _had_ to shove his face into it, because the gun trained on the android from a handful of feet away had been too much to stomach. 

Fuck, it made him angry. Some of the reasons made sense, like Connor having no goddamned reason to sacrifice himself for an old, boozed-up fool who had done little more than treat him like shit for several weeks straight. A few were middling, and he put them out of mind immediately: that it would have been a damn shame because he didn't actually hate working with Connor. Sometimes, he even liked it. Sometimes—

...Others were more questionable, like feeling as if he'd missed out on something, or been robbed of it, like it had been the chance to finally put this all to rest, to do what he'd been too much of a coward to do, himself.

_Bullets meant for him, not Connor_ , Hank's mind helpfully reminded.

Connor picks a really shitty time to walk into Jimmy's.

Hank sees him immediately because even with his hazy, proverbial booze-colored glasses, there was no mistaking when Connor entered a room. It had taken him a bit to realize back at the station, yeah, but now there was no confusing the distinctly _Connor_ presence. He was the only one wearing a suit, let alone who was visibly an android, but it was more than that. The way he stood stock still, eyes taking in the long-wise bar, chin following with a subtle tilt, scattering over every person in Jimmy's before landing on Hank, the subtle softening of his eyes upon recognition of a— not friend, because they weren't friends, were they? But it was recognition nonetheless.

The brief flash of yellow before blue was more than enough to have Hank throwing a wad of bills down onto the table, and by the time the android reaches him, he was already pulling on his jacket. The smell of smoke and booze is suddenly overwhelming, prickling in the back of his nose, like the sensation when you turned over too fast underwater, his body far from being at equilibrium with his mind.

"Hank," Connor started in greeting like he might have any day, save for the slight pinch between his brows and the blue cycle of his LED.

"Not interested," Hank has already thrown an arm between them to push past Connor and unsteadily make his way through the throng of bar-goers, mouth drawn into a grim line. The glint of a few eyes turned his way in a mixture of surprise and even disgust— surely not at _him_ because the other regulars knew damn well of the lieutenant's antics by now— let him know the android was still following him, and it manages to piss him off even more. Whether it was at the patrons or Connor, Hank doesn't bother to figure out. His slow but steady plunge into an alcoholic deluge over the past few hours hits him all at once now that he's standing, rearing its ugly head, screaming at him to _get out, get away_. 

The cold night air beyond _Jimmy's_ threshold hit Hank's face like a ton of bricks. It should be a relief to his mounting nausea, the sweat dampening the back of his neck, but it wasn't, because he hears the jingle of the door behind him a moment later. 

"Lieutenant," Connor called softly behind him. 

It only made him drag his coat tighter around himself, trudging down the now snow-covered sidewalk, his boots crunching against the compacted snow. Hank grit his teeth, willing himself to stuff every hateful, complicated feeling down as deep as he could, even when some belligerent, desperate part of himself called for it to manifest into something practiced, ugly, and untamed.

For a few minutes, Hank is convinced Connor had given up and left him to walk home in peace. That is, until his boot meets snow-slick concrete at the wrong angle, catching him in his inebriated state off guard, one leg sweeping out from under him.

A hand seizes his arm strongly from behind, steadying Hank upright on the sidewalk before he could fall. A fitful glance over his shoulder reveals Connor's brown eyes, dark under the night sky and boring fearlessly into his own.

"Hank," Connor's fingers go slack on Hank's arm, his LED cycling blue as he speaks softly and carefully, "You shouldn't be walking alone."

"Fuck off," Hank snarls without hesitation, yanking his arm free and turning to keep going, but Connor steps in front of him, leaving enough space for him to keep going if he wanted, but only barely. An obstruction without the use of force.

"Your blood alcohol concentration is highly elevated," He says, raising his palms in front of him placatingly, "It could rise higher before you begin to metabolize it. Please allow me to accompany you."

Hank huffs, ignoring the dizziness that starts to rise in the back of his head and turns down a back alley to his left, a more snow-trodden path still preferable to passing Connor when he was looking at him like a goddamn lost dog. He stops as soon as he hears the light _crunch_ of Connor's dress shoes follow behind him, whipping around the bend of the alley, and this time, Hank doesn't bother to stifle the venom in his slurred voice.

"What d'you not understand 'bout the words _fuck off_ , Connor?" He spits, as Connor stops, stock still, "Now you can stop with the charity case bullshit, you fucking...martyr."

It comes out particularly _drunk_ sounding, but Hank is past the point of caring.

"...I think you misunderstood my actions this afternoon, Hank," Connor levies, "Which is why I wanted to speak to you, as I was only doing what—"

"Only _what_?" Hank balls his fists, anger spiking up into his chest, drawing it tight, "Shooting that kid in the _fucking_ _head_? Jumping in front of a bullet?"

Connor's LED flashes yellow, and his eyes twitch, blinking rapidly, "It... seemed to have the most favorable outcome, by my estimations. There was a high probability that if I didn't incapacitate him completely, he would continue to pose a threat—"

Hank is reminded distinctly of how small Mrs. Jennings' hand had felt in his, her shoulders shaking with the weight of her tears. Hank snaps. Taking a ragged few steps forward through the snow, he seizes Connor's shoulders, hauling the android up against the brick wall with near-violent force. Connor makes no attempt to stop him, even as his feet leave the snowy concrete, LED flashing yellow rapidly as they met eyes.

"You barely know me," He growls roughly right into the other's face, digging his fingers into Connor's jacket and twisting the material roughly, "And you're trying to say it was 'cause of some fucking _probability_ that you took a goddamn bullet for me?"

"Lieutenant," Connor's voice finally starts to flare with the hint of _something_ , and he finds himself sickly satisfied by that on some level, though his anger is only stoked when Connor continued, voice rising with conviction, "The probability of your survival should Jakob have shot you at that proximity was well below thirty percent."

"Bullshit," He disregards, face dropping as the mixture of anger and booze finally became dizzying, his breath coming in warm, visible bursts in the frigid air, "That's why."

Connor doubles down, "...Hank, my biocomponents can be replaced, and my core memories are backed up daily, but _you_ —"

As Connor speaks, Hank's eyes catch something on the skirt balled beneath his hands. It's soon apparent even in his inebriated state that it's a ragged hole— the place the bullet had entered Connor, just hours before.

_Bullets meant for him, not Connor._ It occurs to Hank on some level that his hands are probably still covered in Connor's Thirium, invisible to the naked eye.

"But _bullshit_ —" Hank growls, pushing away from Connor and stumbling back two steps before his hand darts to his belt, scrambling with the latch on his gun holster to wrap his fingers around the grip of the pistol, pulling it free. 

He raises it, taking aim at Connor's head and watching the way his LED flashed yellow. 

Beyond the alley, there's the sound of a lone car driving by, Jimmy's door opening and closing with a distant jingle, and the light rattling sound of a shopping cart pushed by a homeless man— but as far as Hank was concerned, the area was dead quiet, save for the sound of his own breaths and the shift of Connor's weight in the snow.

"How's this make you feel, huh?" Hank hisses, out of breath but able to keep his aim steady after years of practice, "Like you're what, _disposable_?"

Connor says nothing. Hank sucks in a sharp, painful breath of cool air, resting his finger over the trigger, "What're the chances of you coming back if I pull this trigger?"

The android's brows and fingers twitch, lips in a thin line before he starts quietly, "If... If the bullet destroys my memory core, there's a chance the fragmented data could no longer be restored into a replacement vessel. Anywhere else, and the probability of recovery is markedly higher, at—"

"So that makes it, what— fifty percent? Sixty? ...Ninety?" Hank challenges, stance shifting wide. "You tellin' me you're not gonna care If I hit you right in that fuckin' brain of yours, just 'cause you've got a backup?"

"...If it's destroyed," He finally acknowledges quietly, "this body has a ninety-eight-point-six chance of permanent shutdown."

There's a long moment where neither of them says anything, just the two of them, staring each other down. Then his wrist jerks, and he's holding the pistol against the side of his own temple, instead.

"What about this?" Hank challenges, and Connor's LED flashes red for a second as he goes very still, "What d'you figure my chances are?"

Connor's LED flashes red a few more times, throwing a pink hue on the dark, sleek and snow-covered cement beneath them, before cycling a solid yellow. His lips purse and then part, settling on a low, tentative, "Hank..."

Bile rises in the back of his throat again, and Hank bares his teeth, dropping his wrist, "That's what I thought," He growls, shoving his gun back into its holster shakily, and stumbling back toward the mouth of the alley without looking at the android.

"Now get the _fuck_ out of here."

This time, Connor doesn't follow. 

Hank makes it home after stopping to vomit over the curb only twice. 

All things considered, he's not too badly off— by the time he'd shrugged off his wet jacket and collapsed onto his couch, pants-less and groaning, the anger in his belly had been replaced by only an empty, dizzying ache. Sumo was fed, so he was fairly content with passing out right where he was, and shoves his earphones on, drunkenly opening his laptop to flip through Coin-trick's old broadcasts. He settles on one at random and leans back, covering his eyes with the back of his hand and focusing on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Coin-trick's soft voice trickled through the earphones as a lullaby, the guilt that would no doubt surface later— as it always did— squashed temporarily beneath his stupor, if only for the moment, heavy and warm and as soothing as it was suffocating.

\---

Hank is shivering. The cold air bites into his skin, so fierce it felt like daggers assaulting his body, though it couldn't stop him from digging in the snow beneath him. His bare hands were bright red and scuffed by the freezing, wet slosh, but he couldn't tire— wouldn't, not now. Desperation seizes him as the seconds pass, another handful out of the way, searching fingers groping for something beneath the snowbank, touching the cool handle of a door and pulling, pulling, until—

Suddenly, Hank is relieving the feeling of his car flipping over, stomach turning in that distinct feeling of _wrong wrong wrong,_ except it never stops, tossing him around until he feels like he'll lose consciousness, reaching out in search of—

He's warm, now. 

Hank can't move, like this, but for some reason, he doesn't feel the urgent need to. Panic still ebbs within his system, fading away in little shocks and jolts, slowly but surely, and he tries to relax and remember what it was like to open his eyes. In some vague and carefree way, he realizes that it isn't that his eyes _can't_ open— but that something was covering them, warm and firm: a hand, gently pressing.

"Shh," A voice teases, warm, low, "It's alright."

The reason he cannot move is that a body is on top of him. Hank raises his hands, immediately moving to run up their thighs, feeling the firmness of their skin, so hot to the touch. It almost burns, but he craves it, tightens his grip until the figure chuckles, low.

"Oh," They murmur softly in a tone that prickles something in Hank's belly, and he squeezes a little harder, "That's nice."

The hand moves from his eyes now, drifting down his throat to press against his chest beside his other palm, supporting his weight. Hank opens his eyes, taking in the lithe, firm and nearly nude body on top of him, sighing when the man starts to sway his hips gently, rubbing down into Hank's lap. He groans low at the friction sweeping over his boxers and tries to stifle the little twitch of his hips upward as his cock starts to stiffen into the touch, but clearly, he didn't try hard enough because Coin-trick smiles briefly above him, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"It's okay," His LED a soft pink to match that tongue, and he bears down against Hank's dick with open satisfaction, "I want to feel it, Twink-Lover-Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

"Fuck," Hank whispers, using his grip on the other's slim hips to hold him down, grinding his much larger body up against Coin-trick's, glancing between his face and where he could see the android's cock tenting his briefs. He wants to reach out to touch it, but Coin-trick's hands cover his own, moving his hips in small, slow circles.

"There," He urges softly, urgently, rubbing the tent in his pants against Hank's own, "Please—"

"Tell me what you want," Hank murmurs, eyelids heavy, having to force himself to keep them open when every ounce of his body felt as if it were being dragged back to sleep—he reaches up to grab a fistful of the other's shirt in defiance, dragging him closer to cup the back of his neck tightly, just above the collar of his suit jacket.

"Hank," The android moans, their lips nearly brushing, his soft brown eyes dark and unfocused, " _Lieutenant_ —"

Hank wakes with a start, nearly falling off the couch. He's breathing heavily, heart pattering fast in his chest, and he feels sweaty to the point of clamminess all over— and he's hard. _Fuck_ , is he hard. Half-awake, he grinds the flat of his palm against his erection through his boxers, groaning gruffly when it sends a pleasurable jolt up his spine, cock tenting the material insistently. 

Clinging onto the remnants of his dream with a brief tinge of guilt, Hank digs his heels into the couch, spreading his legs to reach between them to cup his sack and squeeze, his other wrapping around his dick through the material to stroke tightly. It'd been a while since he'd gotten morning wood, because God only knew he had a lot of factors working against him, so it's easy to get carried away, reaching into his boxers and bringing himself to the edge hard and fast. 

"Shit, shit," He mutters under his breath tightly, hips twitching up into his hand before he's losing it with a low groan. Hank lays there for a minute or two, panting, before looking at his dirtied fingers. 

What a time to remember the previous night— the parts Hank could do so with a sense of clarity, anyway. 

Afterglow decimated into nothing, Hank wipes his hand off on some tissues, feeling the need to brush his teeth after identifying the distinct taste of hours-old puke still clinging to the back of his throat. Holding a hand to his forehead in response to the stabbing agony of a headache he'd fast developed after standing, Hank does the bare minimum of his morning tasks (He fed Sumo) before sinking down onto the couch again, glancing around his living room.

His pistol was on the coffee table in its holster, right next to his laptop. His phone and earphones are on the floor in the space between, and with a groan Hank reaches down to put them out of direct reach of Sumo, glancing at his phone briefly while he snapped his laptop closed, the internet tab having gotten shafted to some random porn popup who knew how long before.

> >> _One New Message_

It was probably Connor. _Fuck_. Hank scrubbed his hands into the stubble of his beard and up into his scalp, sighing. Maybe if he were lucky, it would just be Fowler telling him he was fired for pulling a fucking gun on his partner again, android or not. He was used to fucking up, but it had been a significant chunk of time since he'd fucked up _this_ bad. Anything that came, Hank knew he would deserve. There was being an asshole, and there was— it wasn't even that he regretted what he said, which was probably the worst part because he doesn't. It still rings true in his heart of hearts, roiling and ugly and hateful, but also in denial that Connor would do something so idiotically selfless just for the sake of _probability_.

There was always a reason.

He opens the message. There wasn't only one message.

There was only one _unread_ message.

Hank's eyes widen as he scrolls upward, stomach jumping into his throat— before abruptly dropping like a stone.

> [Connor:] Lieutenant, this is Connor, from the DPD. I know in all likelihood you are currently still indisposed, but I would like to speak to you concerning yesterday's case and the events following it upon your cognizance. Thank you.
> 
> [Hank:] Fucj off
> 
> [Connor:] Lieutenant?
> 
> [Hank:] You think im gonna thank you?
> 
> [Hank:] Stupid
> 
> [Hank:] Peice of shit
> 
> [Hank:] Couldnt be farhter from the truth 
> 
> [Hank:] Shouldve let him take the shot
> 
> [Connor:] Lieutenant, I apologize, it wasn't my intention to antagonize you. I simply wanted to leave a message for when you awoke in a clearer state of mind tomorrow, as a propitiatory act.
> 
> [Connor:] I would like to suggest for the future that you turn your phone off while intoxicated.
> 
> [Connor:] Goodnight, lieutenant.

The rest of the text messages were from varying parts of the morning, moving into the afternoon. 

> [Connor:] Hello, Lieutenant, it's Connor. Will you be coming to Central Station today? Captain Fowler informed me you would be, but it has been five hours and forty-five minutes since the morning shift started. I would like to submit our reports on the case yesterday and would value your input.
> 
> [Connor:] You have exceeded the additional three hours of rest I added in my original estimate given your condition last night. Are you alright?
> 
> [Connor:] Lieutenant, it's Connor. Your phone appears to be receiving these messages, but I don't think you're actually seeing them. Nine hours and twelve minutes have elapsed since the morning shift began.
> 
> [Connor:] I'm outside, Hank.
> 
> [Connor:] You appear to be breathing, but it is labored. I would like to run a better diagnostic in the event you need aid, but I'm obstructed from a direct analysis by your windows, and I think your dog would be unhappy if I came inside without your permission. He is very large. I would hate to upset him when we haven't even been introduced. I've stopped ringing your doorbell in the event it discomforts him.

" _Fuck,_ " Hank curses loudly, as the most recent message was sent just a dozen or so minutes before. He taps out of the messaging app and glances around his house in a panic as if Connor were wedged under a table somewhere. It takes him a second to realize Connor may have heard his response, knowing what a freakishly high tech model he supposedly was.

But if he heard _that_ , then...

" _Shit,"_ Hank curses again, albeit as more of a whisper, this time. He'd like to say he jumped up to make sure his house was mostly put in order, but the truth was, Hank doesn't care. And even if he did, he suspects his body wouldn't have let him devote much to it for the moment, either. His head gives another throb, prompting him to double over on the couch, rubbing the sinus points on his face with a groan.

His phone buzzes again, and he nearly drops it in surprise.

> [Connor:] Are you awake, lieutenant?

Mouth settling into a grim line, Hank takes a deep breath and stands, walks directly to his front door, and opens it. Connor is standing on the doorstep, and at least has the decency to look surprised. Surprising enough, he doesn't _look_ furious, either.

Connor's eyes dart down his body to take in his appearance, which is about the time the lieutenant realizes he's still wearing his striped shirt from the night before, and no pants. 

Hank holds up one hand, fingers splayed wide.

"Five minutes," He grunts, turning and leaving Connor where he stood with the door ajar and a blank look on his face before stalking toward his bedroom, scooping up his laptop and adding gruffly over his shoulder as he went, "and don't let the dog out."

He sees Connor take a slow step across the threshold in his peripheral and hears the gentle jingle of Sumo's collar from the kitchen before he yanks the bedroom door closed behind him, hoping simultaneously that he didn't leave out anything _too_ offensive, but also that he wasn't going to throw up again, because his bathroom is across the hall.

... When Hank leaves his bedroom six minutes later, at least dressed in clean clothing— an old band t-shirt and some dark sweats— he finds Connor standing in the same place he'd left him. He doesn't have the lost puppy look on his face anymore though, because it's turned downward into a faint smile at Sumo, that shameless beast, who is currently leaning his massive head up into both of Connor's hands for pets.

Hank watches the two for a few seconds before clearing his throat. Connor looks away from Sumo but keeps patting his head gently with one hand.

"What's his name?" Connor tilts his face toward Hank, that gentle wisp of a smile still perched upon his lips, "He's very friendly."

"Uh...," Hank takes a few steps closer, digging a hand into his hair as his hangover prickles across his scalp, and grabs his jacket from the floor, "Sumo— I call him Sumo."

"I see," Connor looks back to Sumo, who is enjoying all the attention, going by the hearty wag of his tail, "It's very nice to meet you, Sumo."

Sumo whines, stretching out his big paws and rearing his head before sniffing Connor's hand for more pets, which the android supplies. Hank scratches a stubbled cheek, feeling the words he knows he _has_ to say stuck in his throat at the exchange, stomach sour like it's painful to watch. So he settles on something tepid instead, where he doesn't have to meet the other's eyes.

"This is usually the part where I say I'll buy you a drink."

Connor blinks, "Lieutenant?"

Hank ignores the burn of Connor's gaze on him, the anticipation of pity squeezing his lungs like a tight fist, the spark of an anger born of self-preservation ready to burst alight.

"...But you don't drink, so unless you know of any bars that serve up that blue junk of yours," Hank grumbles, "I got nothin'."

He sees a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye.

"...Oh," Connor turns his body back toward him again, and Hank is forced to acknowledge him, prepared for the other shoe to drop, "An apology isn't necessary, lieutenant. While your actions were...inappropriate, there are things I consider to be of higher priority at this time."

Hank's jaw tenses, because Connor clearly isn't done, yet, his lips parted and eyes flicking to the floor before moving back to his face almost sheepishly. The tension in the room mounts higher every second Hank can feel those steady brown eyes on him, clear and honest.

"But I get the sense that isn't the answer you'd like to hear as of this moment."

Now _that_ was an understatement.

"...Not really, no," Hank bites the inside of his cheek.

Connor doesn't seem very bothered by Hank's awkwardness, which is both a blessing and a curse in disguise, because it gave him no usable excuse to escape... yet.

"In that case, I have a suggestion that may serve both of our purposes... for the time being," His eyes drift over to Sumo, who is still shifting back and forth on his paws, looking between Hank and Connor, "There is a dog park nearby. I would like if we could go there, lieutenant." 

"The dog park," Hank repeats dryly.

"Yes," Connor's lips twitch, his LED a maddeningly calm blue, "Together, with Sumo."

"...Seriously?" He can't keep the confused exasperation he's feeling from creeping into his voice any longer. 

"Yes, ' _seriously_ '," Connor smiles now, something small and good-humored, "The physical stimulation may help you recover... and I would like to see Sumo play."

Sumo evidently understands enough about the words _Sumo,_ and _play_ to get excited, the fluff of his tail smacking the wall where he stands beside Connor. 

The android is clearly amused by the display, because he pats the Saint Bernard on the head in reward, glancing back toward the lieutenant, who is feeling steadily more out of place in his own home by the moment.

"He seems excited by the prospect, don't you think, Hank?"

Hank cuts straight to the point, rough, "I held a gun to your _head_ last night, Connor."

Connor straightens up, face shifting back to the neutral look he had at the station, and for a brief instant, Hank is sure he's managed to fuck up enough to drive the android off, "My primary use was intended for law enforcement, lieutenant, it isn't the first time someone has threatened me with a firearm." 

He smoothes a hand over his crisp shirt, the type of symbol of sincerity a goddamn android had no place making, a double entendre, briefly home to a bullet, "And if you recall, you weren't even the only one to do so yesterday."

The air rushes out of Hank's lungs.

"Fuckin' prick," He hisses, then throws an accusatory finger at Sumo, who wags his tail harder at the attention, "And you're a traitor."

Hank plods toward the back of the house again, this time to the restroom, "Give me another five to brush my goddamn teeth."

(Again.)

He jumps in the shower, too, just to spite Connor— but also to clean the cum off his hand, body, and anywhere else the freak might be able to detect it...If he hadn't, already.

-

"At 'em, boy," Hank groaned as he unclipped Sumo's collar, straightening up with only a little difficulty. He was sore from a fitful night of rest, among other things, like sleeping on his damn couch, and jogging around outside Mrs. Jennings' street.

Connor and Hank both watch Sumo bound around the closed park from a shaded bench, the massive Bernard sprinting toward a crowd of smaller canines, who immediately scatter like frightened deer. He seems thrilled by this. Hank snorts, turning an on eye the opposite side of the bench, where Connor sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him as he watches the animals frolic.

They sit in silence, for a while, doing just that. The cold grass crunches a little under Hank's boots when he shifts, still feeling restless, the turn of events that had brought them here still feeling highly unlikely. The cool air bites at Hank's cheeks, but he doesn't pull his scarf up— preferring the reminder of the present, the sting keeping him in the place instead of beneath the dregs of his hangover.

After a time, Connor is the first to speak.

"May I ask you a personal question, lieutenant?"

Yeah, Hank knew this was coming.

"You're gonna ask it anyway," Hank grunts, still watching Sumo try to tug a stick out of another dog's mouth.

Connor seems to take a few seconds to think about it, probably to decipher if that was Hank's version of a _yes_ or not. When he continues, it's slow and easy, "You don't seem to care very much about your own health, if you don't mind me saying."

Now _that_ gets Hank to look, brows drawing together.

"You tryin' to psychoanalyze me, Connor?" He slings an arm over the back of the frigid bench.

The android raises a brow, one side of his mouth twitching up into a minor smile, "That is one of my features, lieutenant,"

"You frequently ingest meals that are lacking in nutrition, especially for someone of your age. You've had a blood alcohol content that suggests moderate drinking more than two-thirds of the time I've known you, and during a small but significant portion of that, you've been heavily intoxicated."

"Additionally," Hank's gaze drifts to the side again, a sigh of displeasure rumbling in his chest. Hidden, he presses the bare skin of his wrist to the back of the bench's cool surface for grounding, fingers coiling into a fist when Connor keeps going. "It's not unusual for law enforcement of your tenure to be comfortable around their firearms. However,"

Pressing both his hands together just at the point of his fingertips, one of Connor's cheeks twitches where it wrapped up toward his eyes, "Last night you showed no signs of hesitation in turning your weapon on yourself to prove a point."

"None of that shit was a question, Connor," Hank bares his teeth in a grimace, "I was drunk."

Connor turns his body half-toward the lieutenant, and asks bluntly, "Do you have suicidal tendencies, lieutenant?"

"Asks the guy who jumped in front of a bullet."

"You're deflecting the question," Connor's lips part, and he turns back toward Sumo in the distance, before adding, "that's alright."

The air is tense between them, and from Hank's end, at least, it felt utterly stifling. They must look like a pair of fools, sitting silently at opposite ends of the scuffed green bench, one of them an old man in sweats and a hoodie, the other— whatever Connor looked to be— in a suit open to the freezing afternoon. Beauty and the Beast. Something about talking to Connor like this was frustrating in a way Hank had become used to avoiding. He could cower away, make some excuse to leave, maybe even get furious until the android left him alone, but it would be with the knowledge that Connor knew exactly what he was doing, not so easily distracted by the bluster and booze Hank was used to using to fill in the gaps.

"I've come to observe that living can be quite difficult," Connor says slowly.

Hank snorts, "Gee, you figure?"

Connor's lip tugs upward at one end, but his eyes are distant and unfocused, flicking back and forth. Vaguely, Hank wishes he were able to see Connor's LED from where he sat, but he was on the wrong side to catch even a glimpse of it, so he doesn't bother looking at all.

"Simple, yet complex at the same time. By design, the human body needs food, water, and sufficient protection from the elements to survive. But most people would probably say, that _survival_ isn't living," Connor nods to himself, "It's something... deeper."

_Now_ Hank turns and stares at Connor, who keeps going, almost as a mantra to himself, fingers intertwining, gripping.

"People have the unique capability of being adaptable, but are just as resistant to change. Psychologically speaking, it can be very taxing... for some, change past a certain threshold may even prove to be _too_ overwhelming."

"Yeah, welcome to the human race," Hank mumbles, something in his chest tight.

"I saw it in Jakob's memories," Connor glances toward him, and Hank can finally catch sight of his LED flipping rapidly between a cycling blue and brief flashes of yellow, "He was able to feel so many things once he deviated, all at once, and yet at times, he didn't know what to do with any of it. It overwhelmed him, like it did when he responded to Mr. McCaig's violence, and then one mistake got him killed for it."

"Yet, even so," Connor finishes quietly, "Even with every one of his parameters under immense strain, not once did he want to die— not really."

Hank sucks in a breath, recalling the android's words from the previous night, "Yeah, and what about you?"

Connor's eyes narrow. He looks away.

"It would be... highly inconvenient."

It isn't very convincing.

"Y'know, just because I'm almost sober doesn't mean you can pull that shit again," Hank reaches across the bench to knock Connor on the shoulder roughly, who actually looks _surprised_ , "Now _you're_ the one deflecting, asshole."

"I suppose I am."

Hank sits up, looping Sumo's leash in his hands, rubbing his fingertips across its textured surface, the item worn and rough. He clears his throat, "Mary is having him buried after we wrap things up."

"I see," Connor says without looking, "I'll need to tell Markus. He'll want to be there."

" _Markus?_ " Hank raises a brow, " _Jericho_ -Markus?"

"Yes. Markus helped him deviate, during the march," Connor's expression is indiscernible, again seeming as if he was seeing something Hank couldn't, "just as he did Miss Jane."

"Jane?"

"The android who self-terminated. You called her Jane Doe, since we didn't know if she had chosen anything herself," He explains, "I thought she would have liked to have a name."

Hank shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, "Oh."

Sumo seems to have gotten his fill of the other dogs, and has toddled back over to the two of them, burying his face in Connor's lap, who pets the massive dog's head, his brows furrowing, the expression seeming out of place on Connor's usually neutral face.

"How do you go about living when everything you've ever known changes?" He muses, quietly, "Can you?"

Sumo whines and looks up at Connor, whose hands have stilled.

"Connor...," Hank starts warningly.

He turns to the lieutenant now, the consternation on his expression as questioning toward himself as it was toward Hank, shaking his head, "Could Jakob have, if he'd been left to live alone with Mrs. Jennings?"

Hank lets out a deep breath, "Guess that's not a conundrum unique to us human sacks of meat."

Connor's LED cycles blue for a moment more, before it goes still. He resumes scratching Sumo behind his ears. 

"Welp," Hank lets the _p-_ sound pop, groaning as he stands, reaching down to re-clip Sumo's leash to his collar, "This was a real upper of an apology."

Connor moves his hand the inch or so over necessary to touch Hank's wrist where it hovers over Sumo's head. The lieutenant pulls it back immediately.

"I told you that an apology wasn't necessary, lieutenant."

Hank frowns, the movement emphasizing his jowls.

"It's _Hank_ , nut-sack."

Connor's LED flashes yellow for a fraction of a second, and he looks perplexed, eyes round, "Nut...?"

Hank hushes Connor hurriedly, for his own sake,"It's a play on words, asshole. _Nuts and bolts,"_ He hisses, decidedly disappointed in himself, but it had done the trick, "Never mind. Now— you done watching my dog bully the plebs? 'Cause I'm starving."

The change in topic is clearly welcome, because Connor smiles— something small, filled with a relief that Hank can feel in the tightness of his chest.

"There's a diner nearby. Eggs would be good for your hangover, as they're high in Taurine and Cysteine, which help counteract the effect of alcohol on the body. I've downloaded their menu—they have something called a 'green toast,' which has—"

"Jesus," Hank rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands into his jacket, "I'm not paying someone to make me eggs and toast."

"I guess I was wrong in my assumption, Hank," Connor rises from the bench, looking up at the lieutenant with a still expression, "It seemed a comparably minor effort with regard to your usual diet of frozen potatoes deep fried in vegetable oil."

" _Can it_ , Connor."

\---

That night, Coin-trick posts. Hank sees it after he's settled down for bed, exhausted following his late shift at the station and what felt like a hell of a long few days, the migraine from his hangover dragging at him for the remainder of the day and early night. He scratches a hand through his hair, scrolling down the post on his laptop.

> _> > [YP.tv:] _
> 
> _Post: Special Broadcast Poll [Timed]_
> 
> _by: Coin_Trick_
> 
> Hello, everyone,
> 
> I enjoyed reading all of your responses to my question— it seems there are many things you are all interested in seeing me perform. I've compiled a short poll of some of the more frequently requested terms. I apologize if your request wasn't chosen, but please know I visualized many of the situations you all suggested at length before I made my decision, and I'm always open to exploring new situations in the future, at my discretion.
> 
> I'll perform whichever option receives the majority vote during my broadcast next Sunday. There will be an element of audience participation. I hope as many of you can make it as is possible. 
> 
> I'm looking forward to it.
> 
> (:

The poll is attached to the post, and seeing how many votes have already come in was a little startling.

> POLL: Special Broadcast Theme:
> 
> Finger stimulation (15%)
> 
> Vibrating Plug (65%)
> 
> Male Masturbator (20%)

...But the options themselves still made a pang of heat rise in Hank's belly, uncaring of the tired ache in his bones or the weight on his mind. Coin-trick would be performing one of these things, regardless of what won out. Hank finds a few scenarios springing to mind before he can squash them, prompting a shiver up his spine, his cock giving an interested twitch in his boxers.

After adding a discrete note on his calendar to remind him of the date, he snaps the computer shut before he can too get carried away, deciding to hash it out with his thoughts alone. Well, those, and his hand. 

Hank doesn't dream anything, this time, just like before— not of cold winter nights, nor of Coin-trick's teasing words, too weary from the day, the effort of maintaining the facade of normalcy at the station. He'd stayed in the room while Connor recounted details from Jakob's memory to Fowler, a scowl across both his and the Captain's face, Connor's a careful mask. He'd left the diner that day feeling...good, in a way, but also no closer to understanding Connor's willingness to sacrifice himself— for _Hank_ , of all people, like he'd only gotten half of what he'd wanted out of his exchange with Connor.

Who knows— maybe the android felt the same way.

By some strange miracle, he slept straight into the morning without stirring once, only waking up when the buzz of his front door enters his peripheral thoughts, gradually dragging him out of slumber. The bell rings again, before stopping abruptly.

"Fuckin' Connor..." Hank groans, stumbling toward his front door, scratching a hand across his chest and swiping some gunk out of the inner-corner of his eye. He doesn't bother looking through the peephole, because no one else had a reason to bother coming to his door for months, and it wasn't the door-to-door cookie-sale season. Hank rolls his eyes and yanks open the door, already preparing a verbal jab.

"Alright, asshole, what is it?" He grumbles, blinking rapidly as the morning light streams into his eyes, "Come to tell me to eat my vegetables?"

"Lieutenant Hank Anderson," Connor starts.

But it isn't Connor. Hank blinks, realizing he's staring into eyes that are a cool, grey-blue, not brown. No, it wasn't Connor at all.

"You must have mistaken me for my predecessor," Not-Connor comments monotonously, fingertips coming up to the brush high black collar of his dress shirt, that dipped beneath his contrasting white-and-black suit, "I'm an RK900 unit, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I was wondering if I could speak with you concerning some information you forwarded my current superior."

Hank's mouth goes dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *x-files theme*
> 
> If you somehow made it through that mess, know this: I love you, and I appreciate you.
> 
> Hit me up on twitter at @rk69420!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for missing a weekend post! This ended up kind of, well...
> 
> you'll see... bye...

Hank is sorely tempted to close his front door and go back to bed, because he must be dreaming.

It's the only way to explain the figure standing in front of him right now— Connor's doppelgänger, where looking at him prompts an uncanny valley-sensation immediately, the android looking starkly similar in almost every way, though _something_ intangible was so markedly different it made Hank's stomach turn like a beer too many. Where Connor's verisimilitude could be arguably seamless at times—by design, surely— any lack easily backed up with the excuse of, _well, maybe he was just awkward_ , there was something in the set of RK900's jaw, the clear and piercing way his uncommonly bright eyes bored into Hank's skull that was distinctly _manufactured._ Machine, even.

The slack-mouthed look on his face must have tipped off the RK900 unit that there was little point in waiting for him to respond because the other does so first in that same monotonous, almost bored tone, his half-lidded ice blue-grey eyes panning over Hank's appearance with disinterest.

"Perhaps you need a moment to compose yourself," It's a statement, not a question.

Once again, Hank has found himself in a confrontation with an android wearing only his sleep shorts and a ratty t-shirt. Yeah, he has a feeling— sick, turmoil in his belly, tightening his chest— that this wasn't exactly going to be a _pajamas_ kind of conversation. There had been a lot more of those, lately.

"Uh, yeah... shit," He backs up to make space beyond the door, though the skeptical look on Hank's face remained even as he grants entry, "Come in, I guess."

Unlike with Connor, Sumo doesn't bother getting up to greet the unexpected visitor when Hank goes to throw on some sweats, instead watching warily from his bed, unmoving but visibly alert. Hank makes a mental note to give the dog some extra kibble in thanks later, but for the moment excuses himself wordlessly to take his time to get dressed, trying to delay the inevitable. 

As if the fucking feds showing up on his doorstep wasn't bad enough, he was going to have to face this conversation with Connor's mirror image.

"So you're uh, here to ring me out, huh," Hank emerges from his bedroom with a grunt, eyes flicking around the room but finding that RK900 hadn't budged an inch since he'd left, "Perkins get tired of waiting for Connor to do it himself?"

He wouldn't be surprised if that were really the case, all things considered. He'd been waiting too long for the other shoe to drop— it had actually gotten the jump on him, for once.

"No."

Whether it was meant to be a joke or not, RK900 shows no reaction, leveling him with that same unamused, unreadable look. Fuck, when Hank gets a little closer, he can see that even his _freckles_ are in the same spot as Connor's, the moles dotted around his cheeks a facsimile of the RK800 he knew. But he wasn't the same.

"...That isn't why I'm here, lieutenant," RK900 responds easily.

That _bad_ feeling in Hank's gut hasn't budged an inch, only growing as the seconds ticked by.

"You're not gonna tell me you're here to _help_ , like Connor, are you?" Hank can't keep down the unpleasant twist of his lips at the idea, and mutters about Perkins under his breath, baring his teeth, "He's gonna goddamn kill me with these androids."

"My objective isn't to assist you in fulfilling your job duties, either, lieutenant," RK900 finally moves, crossing his arms behind his back, the motion drawing his jacket taut to his shoulders, the material seeming stiffer than Connor's CyberLife uniform, "I'm here to observe."

"Observe," Hank restates dryly, before a burst of irritation scrambles up his throat, and he doesn't restrain it, this time, waving a hand, "Look, why don't you cut the Terminator shit and tell me what Perkins really wants?"

RK900 seems to sense that Hank isn't finished, because he doesn't respond in the interim, unflinching at the aggression as the lieutenant continues, "I know I'm a real looker nowadays, but last I heard, he was interested in sticking his fingers in places they didn't belong, not watching old fucks solve murder investigations."

The RK900's eyes follow him as Hank paces around his entryway. When he speaks next, it's as if by rote.

"It's as I said: my observation will primarily center on the Android Crimes Division and your internal and external management of past, present, and future cases, in order to provide research for the probationary period of your unit," 

He pauses, and Hank has to vaguely wonder the reason, since he knows for a goddamn fact that androids don't need to breath, so it must be something the RK900 believes to be for _his_ benefit, "Not only you, but the RK800 unit _Connor_ , as well."

Hank guffaws, but the RK900 isn't done, "Particularly, Special Agent Perkins is inquiring into cases involving android violence against humans, with a sub-interest in any potential connections to Jericho-affiliated individuals."

"Are you fuckin'—" Hank raises his hands in a dismissal of his own words, electing to rephrase with a disbelieving grimace, "Hold on. Why Connor?"

RK900 doesn't even blink, "That information is confidential."

"Listen, you—" Hank starts, taking a step toward the android, who seemingly has no qualms with speaking over him, voice calculatedly a level higher than Hank's.

"I had _thought_ you would be pleased to know you aren't currently under personal investigation, lieutenant, despite the...d _iscrepancies_ on your disciplinary record. It's not often that I'm incorrect."

Yeah, now Hank is getting the sense that this guy is just an asshole.

"Yeah," He grits, "just thrilled."

He bites his lip without looking directly at RK900, the effect of hearing that shit come from Not-Connor's mouth riling him up more than it should, and tries to think where this could possibly go. Most of what Hank figures he could do go beyond what was _technically_ appropriate if he was really talking to an FBI agent, so he instead does what most anyone would try to do in this situation, which is to find a fast way _out_.

"Now, I'm 'real flattered he hasn't found anything to can me with yet, but you're gonna have to be a little more specific in what it is you're asking here," He ticks the following reasons off on his fingers, "in my house, at 8:00-fucking-AM, _on my day off_."

There's the unspoken _or you can get out of my house,_ but he doesn't think it needs to be vocalized, given the open displeasure on his face, stony since Connor had been brought up. Evidently, it's visible enough, because RK900 cuts to the chase immediately.

"Have you discerned any connections between the recent homicides in your unit? I understand you were involved in an altercation with an android that ended in its termination."

"Nope," Hank spits out, crossing his arms, and It's only half a lie, "can't say I have."

He leaves out that Connor had been the one to kill Jakob, and that both had been moved to deviation by Markus.

"Is that so...," RK900 uncrosses his arms from behind his back, perhaps in a challenge to Hank's defensive position, "Has Connor yet cross-examined the cases you've submitted to the Bureau against the recent homicides?"

Now, Hank has been interrogated before, so the lack of inflection isn't what continued to make him so uncomfortable. It's something deeper than that, and the reason that feeling surges when he can finally bring himself to look back at the RK900, who meets his eyes without a hint of the same reservedness. He won't balk, now.

"Dunno," He shrugs, "I'd have to ask him."

RK900's lips thin into a line, though he doesn't quite frown.

"I'll take the opportunity to do so myself," RK900 starts, taking a step back toward Hank's front door, his LED still a calm solid blue, less a concession as it is a conclusion, "That should be all for the present, lieutenant. We may resume this upon your next presence at Central Station."

"Hold it," Hank starts after him, grabbing the door before it can close.

"Lieutenant?" RK900 asks, and even if it's with the same voice he'd heard Connor address him in many times before, there's something markedly different in his tone— something lower, deeper. Different. Fuck, it still felt wrong.

RK900 is waiting for him to respond, where Hank has paused with a frown, sure he looks about as uncomfortable and awkward as he felt asking, "Are there more of you— uh, Connors?"

Surprisingly, RK900 actually narrows his eyes.

"...I am not Connor," He says slowly and evenly, "and he is not I."

The door closes, and Hank is left with the distinct feeling that the whole meeting had been a test of some sort— an interrogation, but one without a stated purpose, leaving him feeling frustrated, any rest he tried to get afterward short-lived, fitful, and fruitless. 

The next hour of the morning dragged on as Hank was left to his own thoughts, the majority of them centered on Connor— and RK900, the android cases, and whether Perkins really meant anything by the so-called _investigation_ , if not to sink his career. That, and if Hank even knew of a connection, given that he'd felt the need to be deceptive about details he wasn't sure he understood or involved Connor. Several times, his train of thought circled back to Coin-trick.

...That there were now three people he knew of— androids—with the same face.

It's only after Hank has taken Sumo out for a walk and come back through his doorway that the full intention of RK900's words hits him, _I'll take the opportunity to do so myself._ It wasn't a threat, but it still felt...wrong.

Shit _._ Maybe _he_ could avoid his problems for a day in the warm embrace of his couch and a handle of whiskey, or choose to wallow in them alone with the cool grip of a revolver, but Connor couldn't. 

Hank grabs his keys, heading back out into the blustery Michigan morning.

\---

When Hank arrives, it's clear _something_ had happened, and recently. The receptionist— he still can't remember her name for the life of him— is sitting stiffly behind the front desk, exchanging hushed words with one of the office attendants and glancing at him nervously by the time he makes it to the turnstile. She offers a small smile and an acknowledgment of _Lieutenant Anderson,_ but it's clearly with discomfort, the gesture falling flat. The attendant she'd been speaking with openly eyes Hank with apprehension, sealing the deal that he'd been preceded, and with more than his usual reputation. 

He doesn't bother pressing either of them about it and heads right into the bullpen, glancing around the room— confirming immediately that Connor isn't at his desk, or anywhere in sight, for that matter. Hank can't remember the last time the bullpen had been so full, either, nearly every officer a-bustle with activity save for a few desks, the air stifling. Scratch that, he _does_ remember the last time it had been so forcedly active in the visible sense... when Fowler had delivered the news about Perkins' inquiry.

Hank's mouth curls into a frown. The hanging-slat privacy curtain is drawn in Fowler's office, meaning _someone_ important was in there. Fuck, it figures. He just hopes Connor isn't in there, too.

Hank checks the cell-area first, in the event Connor were observing a detainee, but finds nothing. He's not in the interrogation rooms or the mirror area, either. Next, it's the break room, which is empty sans Tina staring blankly at the brewing coffeemaker, a drawn look on her strong features. He's about given up by the time he crosses to the Archives entryway, slapping his keycard against the door and entering the empty hallway with a sense of dread and resignation— Connor was probably in Fowler's office, which meant so had to be RK900.

Hank is about to turn back when he hears the soft murmur of voices down the hall, in the Archive locker. He takes a couple steps closer and recognizes the sound of Connor's voice— and someone else. Then he hears a clatter from inside. Biting the inside of his lip, Hank opens the door slowly, the clear glass of the dividing wall beyond and midway down the room making immediately clear what was going on within. He froze.

Connor and Gavin are in the room alone, the former facing away from the entryway, face hidden. But they aren't standing— Connor is hauled up against the opposite side of the clear divider, Gavin's face visible where he has an elbow pressed up against the underside of the android's throat, his other hand wrapped around the base of it. From where Hank stands, he can see the detective's brows drawn together in anger, and catches the tail end of his sentence, hissed under his breath.

"...Knew I recognized your shitty voice from somewhere, tin can."

On some distant level, he realizes that Gavin hasn't seen him, and if Connor has, he doesn't show it. One of the android's hands rests high enough against the detective's chest to where Hank can see it, clearly unrestrained, but put up in protest.

"The good ole' _Android Negotiator_ , prototype from CyberLife, and now what— you know, I gotta say, you surprised me," He presses his elbow in, and Hank can see Connor's shoulders stiffen, "Of all the shit you've managed to pull off, didn't think you'd be adding _slut_ to your punchcard."

An alarm blares in Hank's mind, sharp and red, and he takes a step or two forward, expecting Gavin to notice him at any moment, but he finds his feet glued in place when it comes to deciding to actually interrupt what was playing out. It wasn't out of a lack of fury (and shock, for sure), or even a lack of willingness, but out of the _confusion_ that roils through him at the display. He'd felt the android's strength firsthand more than once— the guy had taken _two_ _bullets_ for him, for gods sake. 

It was a plain fact that Connor could probably hand Gavin's ass to him one-on-one in no time at all, so why didn't he?

"Detective Reed," Connor finally says quietly, voice strangely clipped, "Let go of me."

"What, trying to play dumb?" Gavin sneers, leaning in, "You gonna play the android card— gonna say it was some _other_ metal prick who looks like you, _sounds_ like you?"

He leans in far enough that Connor turns his face to the side to evade it, which lets Hank catch sight of Connor's LED, flashing yellow. It's enough for him to start forward again, at the console point when a second voice sounds from behind Hank, stopping him.

"...Gavin Reed," It says from the entryway, unhurried, and monotonous— but not soft, it was anything but, firm and unyielding, a leather crop yet to be broken in. The reaction is as instantaneous— Gavin's face whips around, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head when his eyes land on the figure standing calmly in the doorway: RK900, his hands hanging loosely at his sides and eyes half-lidded, LED shining a calm, still blue.

"What the _fuck_?" Bursts out of the detective's mouth abruptly, caught off guard, Connor's throat slipping from his grasp just enough to bring his fingers under the edge of the android's jaw. Hank takes an uncertain step forward, determined at this point to deck Gavin at least once, his appearance coinciding with a spark of yellow from Connor's LED— but his eyes are solidly on RK900 from where he cranes his view sideways, the color at his temple flickering quickly.

For all his shock, Gavin doesn't back down, because of course, the idiot doesn't.

"Well, lookie here," He recovers sloppily, glancing between Connor and RK900 with his teeth bared, the former of whom hasn't budged where he's unceremoniously pinned to the glass. "we've got another one of you, after all, just _fucking_ fantastic."

"Release him," RK900 says simply, not rising to the blatantly aggressive display, which only seems to infuriate Gavin further. Hank becomes aware that Connor is looking at him, now, something in his chest clenching at how Connor immediately looks away once his glance is returned.

"Fuck you," The detective hisses, the shock of the turn of events putting him out of sorts, "I'll— I'll do what I want. You got something to say about it?"

"You misunderstand, Detective Reed." 

RK900 steps properly into the room now, a few slow strides bringing him halfway to the shorter man, who takes the chance to shove Connor away from him, stalking up to the advancing android with obvious contempt. RK900 is unfaltering in his stance when Gavin steps right into his personal space, directing a sneer up at his face.

"Oh yeah?" Gavin tilts his face to the side condescendingly, like he might have if RK900 weren't towering over him, "Wanna enlighten me, tin can?"

"Certainly," RK900 drones, turning his eyes downward at the detective with a flat look, chin having to incline to meet his gaze evenly, "It wasn't a request, so your input was wholly unnecessary. You will obey."

Hank can tell this was going nowhere good. He glances toward Connor, who was straightening up against the clear divider, glancing at the confrontation with an LED flickering between blue and yellow, his brows turning up with a vague kind of worry. Hank wants to ask if he's alright, but the other two in the room are between them, Gavin's bark of a laugh drawing his attention back to the exchange.

"Oh, _will I?_ Mind telling me why I should listen to you, 'stead of messin' you up?" Gavin jabs a finger into RK900's chest, "Who the _fuck_ are you to tell me what to do?"

Connor's LED flashes suddenly, and he's stepping forward in warning, speaking low, "Niles—"

"For the purpose of _posterity_ ," RK900 starts cooly, "I should inform you it is a Federal crime to forcibly assault a Federal Officer during engagement of their duties."

Gavin is visibly gobsmacked. 

"'The fuck?"

Connor inches out of the back area of the evidence room, heading for Hank, even if he doesn't look at him just yet.

"It would be highly unflattering to have such on your record, Detective Reed," RK900 concludes, the fury boiling up within the detective opposite of him obvious from the way his face screws up into something distinctly sour.

"Fuck this," Gavin hisses, pushing past RK900, who stands solidly even when the detective bumps his shoulder. The detective moves suddenly when he passes Connor, shoving the Android via a jab to the chest with the heels of both palms, who in turn stumbles one step against the wall, catching himself with a hand to the wall partway down.

"Good thing _he_ wasn't a fed, huh?" Gavin calls cockily over his shoulder, the heavy Archives door slamming shut behind him. Hank hisses angrily under his breath as the situation in full catches up to him, moving fast toward the door with the intention to catch up to Gavin, preferably to wipe the smirk off his face by force.

"—I'm fine, Hank!" Connor calls from behind him, and he looks in time to see RK900 extend a hand toward the half-fallen Connor, who accepts it to straighten up.

Hank is tempted to go anyway when there's a flash of blue where they touch, then white, both of their LEDs lighting up— RK900's yellow, Connor's red. Connor suddenly pulls his hand back with a yank, lips parting in a look of... Hank isn't sure what, but it wasn't good. Something almost like pain, but different from when he'd interfaced with Jakob's dying mind-state.

"You didn't have to do that," Connor chides RK900 quietly, surprising Hank with the intensity of dismay and vague disappointment there, his brows furrowing, "You could have just asked."

One of RK900's eyes twitches at the corner, his brows mimicking the look to a much subtler degree. He says nothing, LED still flickering yellow. Hank realizes after a second that there's something going on here that he literally can't understand— something distinctly _android,_ by the way their lights were flickering in tandem _._

"Hey," He inserts himself into the situation now by stepping between Connor and RK900, feeling late but no ifs, ands, or buts about it, "mind filling me in on just what the hell is going on?"

The RK900 unit seems to take notice of Hank for the first time, as if the lieutenant had been nothing but scenery to the bulk of the interaction. He turns to face him, LED shifting back to a calm, even blue.

"Lieutenant Anderson," He acknowledges with a nod, at the bare minimum. Connor glances at Hank with a look of surprise at the recognition, who waves a hand passively.

"We've met. Don't sweat it, Con," Deciding he doesn't actually want to hear it from RK900 himself, Hank keeps his eyes firmly on the RK model _he_ knows best as he takes a step back, hoping the furtive look on his face conveys it, "How about we head out? I'm sure Fowler's got something rattling in our direction. Think we've had enough of the Station."

"...Alright, lieutenant," Connor blinks a few times in rapid succession, something Hank was starting to recognize as a distracted tic. Of what in particular, though, he wasn't sure. All that mattered to him is that Connor follows him out of the Archives room after tapping a few commands onto the center console, the evidence from Jakob's case that he must have been examining sliding back into the wall. Hank doesn't bother looking behind them until they're back in the bullpen, sure that RK900 had followed but fairly content with pretending he didn't exist long enough for them to get the hell out of Central Station.

They almost make it, too, with Connor following silently alongside him, until the RK900 unit steps into their way, though unlike when Connor had done so sometime before, he doesn't leave him another path. 

"Lieutenant," RK900 seems to purposely address _him_ , this time, instead of Connor, whom Hank can feel shift in place next to him, "Before you go, I'd like to request access to your current case files, particularly those of your most recent case."

Hank doesn't bother hiding his displeasure, because that's not the way he is, and the day so far as eradicated any of his capabilities of being polite. He levels one dead-eyed look on RK900 before jabbing his thumb in the direction of his console, gruff and showing teeth, "Knock yourself out, T-1000. Just don't come calling if Reed pisses in your Thirium tomorrow now that he knows you're sticking around."

Hank grabs his jacket to head out the door, then turns back and grabs a handful of Connor's near the collar when he realizes the android has faltered. It jostles him out of where he'd been staring at the RK900 interfacing with Hank's console with a tight-lipped expression and a cycling LED, the yank toward the station door bringing Connor's face whipping around to look at him in confusion, but Hank ignores it. 

"At least, don't let him do it at mine or Connor's desk, got it?"

\---

It turned out that _whatever Fowler had rattling around_ was a dead-end stakeout— one that lasted hours with little to no action, sans what was between Hank and two soda refills. It wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind when he'd half-dragged Connor out to his car at the station, but he supposed it was better than the alternative, the image of Connor and RK900 staring at each other in silent communication eerie.

Connor had briefed him on the way to the watchpoint, as he often did nowadays, since he had access to the debriefings of every case they were assigned— if not the rest of the precinct, as well. Afterward, however, Connor had fallen very quiet. Every now and then they exchanged small talk about the case; someone alleged to be attempting to manufacture Red Ice using decommissioned androids (which of course didn't work, but clearly they were short on brains as it stood) but with the lack of activity down their shaded section of street, in an old gated parking lot, it wasn't much of a conversation starter.

Hank shifts in his seat for what must be the millionth time in the past hour, stifling the urge to reach for the soda he'd slurped down to only ice tens of minutes ago. Beside him, Connor looks out the window, his LED hidden, his palms flexing against each other, fingers curling and uncurling over the back of his hands.

"So, uh..." Hank rasps finally, his voice coming out a little rougher than he'd have liked to breach the topic with, "That guy, the RK900...'"

"Niles," Connor supplies, his eyes still on the road.

The lieutenant rests the heels of his palms on the steering wheel, lips tugging to one side. He hadn't introduced himself to Hank as that, in the morning— it had been _RK900,_ then.

"Yeah, him," Hank rubs the side of his nose, sniffling when the cool air coming through his ajar window catches him off guard, "'Seems like a real piece of work, that one."

Connor's hands smooth flat over his thighs; Hank sees it out of the corner of his eye. His shoulders seem to relax just a bit, "I don't think he means any harm by it, lieutenant."

"You didn't seem too happy with him, either."

"That's...," Connor pauses, and Hank is sure he's said the wrong thing, before the other continues, "It wouldn't have been strange, ' _before'_. Niles is still adjusting to being allowed the human societal concept of personal boundaries, that's all."

Hank raises a brow, turning to face the android. 

"And you aren't?"

"I find my progress quite satisfactory, lieutenant," 

Hank can hear the slight smirk in Connor's words even if he can't see it, the bastard. He rises to the jeer easily, as natural as the hand he now spreads over the console, leaning on it to bring himself closer if Connor wouldn’t.

"You scanned me through my curtains while I was sleeping 'cause I left you ' _on read_.'"

"That was different."

"Uh- _huh_."

The car goes silent again. The cool breeze has stopped, and Hank is starting to feel stifled again, though it's unclear whether it's his own nervous body-heat trapped in his jacket or where he's sat against the seat interiors, or something else.

Connor had procured a coin from somewhere and was idly flipping it over the rise of his knuckles. Hank watches the coin glide effortlessly over the android's slim fingers until it disappears into his palm, flicking out toward his other hand. His LED is still blue, from what Hank can see in the reflection of the car window, and calm.

Hank clears his throat, tapping on the steering wheel idly.

"You two know each other, right?"

"Yes," _Flip, flip, flip_. "He was retrieved from CyberLife after the uprising."

"You work together at the FBI?" He asks, eyes flicking across the street beyond the lot, still on the lookout even as Connor's words and the confrontation roll over in his mind.

_Flip_ , _catch_. Connor turns toward Hank now, brows creasing minutely, his lips parted, "Hank, is something wrong?"

Hank shrugs, digging his nails lightly into the back of the faux-leather of the wheel, "You didn't exactly look happy to see him."

The air feels very still around them when Connor pauses, lips thinning and LED cycling blue for a moment.

"It's... complicated, lieutenant."

It's a deflection and an obvious one. It's frustrating. RK900's— _Niles's_ words from the morning come to mind, that Connor is under observation, the motive nebulous. He looks Connor dead in the eye, a question, but also an offer.

"Well, seems like I've got all day so long as this perp decides to take his damn time."

Connor holds his gaze for a few moments, unspeaking, and then looks away, to where he's again rolling the coin across his knuckles— but his eyes don't move to track it, playing with the coin on something akin to instinct. 

Hank gets the message and changes the subject, though likely not to something any more comfortable.

"'Think he'll knock out Reed before the day's up?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," Connor says easily to the swap, lips twitching at the corners, clearly able to be amused by the imagery despite everything, "Detective Reed seemed quite perturbed by his presence."

"Yeah, well, he should be," One of Hank's hands comes up to scratch the back of his neck, drifting up into the shorter hairs there, voice gruff, "Should've done more than chew Gavin out the second I saw him."

"It's alright, Hank," He replies, softer, this time.

"Fuck that," Hank shoots back immediately, narrowing his eyes at Connor across the seat, "Mind explaining why you didn't? And don't say _it's complicated_."

Connor's LED flickers to yellow for a second, long enough for Hank to press, " _Connor_."

"It _is_ complicated," He murmurs, then his eyes are darting around the interior of Hank's car, not focusing on anything, "The world is watching us very closely, lieutenant."

"Us?"

"Androids involved with Markus— androids in general, really," The coin in his hands stills again, "If I were to harm an officer of the law..."

All of a sudden, Hank knows where this is going— and it pisses him off even more.

"—You'd be defending yourself, for one. That's different, Connor, doesn't matter if you've got some fancy Jericho title or not," Hank grits, "Two, it's _Gavin—_ shit, they'd probably _thank_ you for showing him what's up."

Connor musters a small smile at the joke, but there's something in the tense of his brows, the natural slope of his eyes, that makes it look sad, especially when his gaze seems a million miles away.

"The line between self-defense and assault is still unclear to many in the public, lieutenant," He rubs his thumb lightly over the surface of the coin, "To the right—or wrong— people, I could look just like another _Jakob_ , acting on my basest instincts, as if that's a crime in itself."

He keeps going, voice even, because Connor clearly believes this, and it puts something heavy and tight in the pit of the lieutenant's stomach, "I could easily be seen as threat to others—you've seen how easy it is to paint us all that way, and if even an advanced prototype such as myself could perpetrate that..."

"Psh," Hank exhales midway, and Connor stops mid-sentence, looking at him with confusion.

Hank leans over the center console, the seats creaking beneath the shift of his weight, and seizes Connor's cheek between his thumb and finger, pulling.

"With this weird face?" He pinches, rolling his eyes before letting go, "—C'mon. No one could take you seriously. You could tell 'em you killed a fly and they wouldn't believe it."

Connor stares at him, looking strangely dumbfounded for a nigh-priceless, high-tech analysis-machine.

"I can pre-construct over forty-thousand combat scenarios and weapon simulations that might suggest otherwise lieutenant," Connor responds, deadpan.

"I bet that'd be for a real' bad fly, though— the kind that lays shit in your food," It's a shaky excuse, and he knows it, but that's fine. Hank clicks his tongue, looking away and biting back a rueful grin when he sees Connor's hand dart up to touch the temporarily reddening mark on his cheek.

"Do me a favor: stick to _Connor_ and kick his ass, or anyone else's, next time, yeah?" The lieutenant grunts and turns over the ignition, decidedly finished waiting on a shred of a whim for something that wasn't going to happen, "You're annoying enough as it is without adding _martyr_ to the list."

—Wasn't going to happen, couldn't happen, never would. Hank sucks in a breath, breathes out through his nose when he hears Connor say his name.

"Hank..." His eyes are on Hank's in the center mirror, an amused twinkle taking over the distant look, "I would thank you, but that sounded an awful lot like an insult. So I won't."

"Good," Hank snorts, but his eyes are on the road, the sky turning shades of unruly pink and red above the slat grey-black-white of the city beneath it, and not on the coin flipping gently over the planes of Connor's hands, unhindered by the rumble of Hank's car down the street.

 

\---

  

> _> > [YP.tv:] Now Live: Coin_Trick: Special Broadcast_

"Hello, everyone. Is everything showing alright?" 

Coin-trick leans toward the camera, adjusting it so the view slides back somewhat, comfortably revealing his body where it sits at the edge of the bed— black slacks, a white button-down shirt, with the first button already undone, and its sleeves pushed up. More markedly, however, the view includes the lower half of his face, just enough to show his half-smile and the dimple of a cheek where his lips pull up farther to one side.

Hank swallows, already feeling something go taut in his chest. He's in bed for the night, his laptop once again balanced on a pillow next to him with his earphones in; it was a good use of an otherwise empty space, if he did say so himself. There's the low buzz of music in the background of the stream, replacing the silence of Coin-trick's previous broadcasts, but Hank can't make it out very well. Something unhurried, a mix of chill-wave and dream-pop, fitting almost ironically well. If its purpose is to drown out the rest of the world around Coin-trick, well, it was working on Hank well enough already.

"Thank you for joining me," Coin-trick's hands press against the dark bedcovers beneath him, thin fingertips curled over the edge of the mattress, "I hope you're all doing well?"

He pauses, clearly to give people time to respond— many do, more users showing up at a steady interval as the stream passes its first few minutes of the broadcast. He acknowledges a few here and there, including Hank's username (even when he doesn't type anything, as he always seemed to do), but otherwise trails fingertips over the same fold of blanket in quiet as the little black number below the stream title gradually rises.

"I see most of what you might call the 'regulars' are here now," Coin-trick reaches beyond the camera, the clack of something off-screen sounding, and when he leans back, he has a small container in his hands, about the size of a shoebox, which he sets down on the bed beside him, "I'm happy you could make it."

"In the event you're unaware, this is a broadcast somewhat unlike my previous," One of his hands rests at the edge of the box, "I'm going to do something unique in appreciation of all of your support."

The hand on the edge of the box twitches and tightens, Hank's eyes drawn to it immediately, and he chuckles, the sound small and light, "Please— Though I appreciate it, I'd like to request you hold off on donations for a moment," He makes a placating gesture, "while I explain."

Hank glances at the chat. People are still clearly trying to donate, even though it looks like Coin-trick had temporarily turned the option off. He looks back, and the other has pulled the box into his lap.

"If you've looked at the poll I constructed prior to this broadcast, you might already know which option was chosen by popular vote," Hank knows, because it had been the first thing he'd looked at when he'd gotten home, that night, "In which case I ask you to keep it a secret," Coin-trick touches a finger to his lips. Hank licks his lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry.

"I thought it would be interesting to show you the other things I've purchased with you all in mind, while we wait for everyone to arrive," Coin-trick leans in again, reaching into the box to pull something out, placing it on the edge of the bed-stand that frames the lower portion of the screen. It's a black ring.

Hank sucks in a breath, realizing— it's a _cock ring_.

Coin-trick runs a fingertip around its perimeter, lips twitching up a little at the sides at the obvious reaction of the stream viewers to the item, of which Hank is also participating, only internally. But Coin-trick doesn't comment on it beyond the touch, instead electing to reach into the box again.

This time, he places a small, capsule-looking object on the table, its bright blue finish contrasting harshly with the dark wood finish of the bed-stand. Hank is happy he doesn't have to do so to anyone but himself, because he would be ashamed to admit that the sight of the vibrator is making him hard.

Without looking, the lieutenant adjusts himself in his boxers, leaving his hand there when Coin-trick takes the next item out, the size much larger than the previous two. Its gummy-blue surface is partially clear, the bright contrast of the android's fingers showing through it when he puts it down in front of the camera, squeezing the head lightly. It's a stroker.

Hank squeezes himself through his boxers and holds, having to physically force himself from doing anything else yet. Evidently, someone says something to a similar effect in the chat, because Coin-trick's lips twitch open again, stopping short of a chuckle.

He ignores the box for a moment, fingers coming up to unbutton his shirt slowly and methodically.

"I enjoy seeing your favorable responses to my purchases," Coin-trick speaks conversationally, fingertips gliding over the buttons of his shirt, gradually revealing a bare stripe of his chest. The android shrugs the garment off his shoulders, reaching out to languidly remove it without bringing more than his mouth on-camera, folding the shirt up neatly before placing it off camera, "It felt a little excessive to get it all at once, but I suppose I just couldn't make up my mind with such an array of options."

Hank's eyes can't help but stray over the expanse of skin revealed by the removal of Coin-trick's shirt, counting the moles that drag his gaze from point to point like a constellation, trailing over the rise of his narrow chest, over the pink flush of a nipple, guiding Hank's eyes downward beyond his slim stomach to where his iliac crest pokes up over his trousers. He bites his lip, this time, thinking— and not for the first time, ruefully— that he was _perfect._

"Ah, there's one more," Coin-trick says, as if he forgot, and Hank chokes on his own spit when he reaches into the box to pull out a smooth, black dildo, settling it down on the desk with his fingers wrapped around its base. His fingertips linger there for a beat, a small smile coming into view when he leans down.

"You seem surprised. Is it because I neglected to put it on the poll?"

Hank doesn't even have to look at the chat directly to know it was going insane— he can see the fast scroll of the words going by out of the corner of his eye. It's relatable.

"It's for a later time, I'm afraid," He now turns the box over toward the camera, to show it's empty, "And you might have noticed, but there's something... _missing_."

The pause is just long enough for Hank to _get it,_ and it wasn't because he was a detective for a living. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, heart starting to speed up, breath catching in a surprised _oh_ , before Coin-trick even sets the box aside, slowly spreading his legs, the movement bunching up his trousers at the line of his crotch.

"You see, I thought it might be...intriguing," Leaning back on one hand, his slender fingers move up the inside of his thigh, tipping to run along the inner seam before gently brushing over his fly, tentative at first, then fully, "To test it myself, just in case."

Hank's cock stiffens under his unmoving hand, just as Coin-trick's starts to visibly fill out against his trousers beneath his touch, emphasized when he scoots down on the bed to get closer to the camera. He cups himself through the material, fingers forming a semi-circle to one side, gently pumping, lips parting where his jaw comes into view at the top of the screen.

"I've turned the donation capability back on," He murmurs, finger catching at his fly to unzip his pants, dragging them open and pulling them down his hips to reveal the press of his erection against his plain black boxer-briefs, "Can you guess why?"

Fingertips skidding across the keyboard in a blurry-state, Hank sends through one of his first direct donations, heart thudding in his chest when the donation sound dings quietly in the background of the stream.

> _twinkluver_1985: get the feeling you're teasing yourself just as much as us_

"That was fast, Twink Lover-Nineteen-Eighty-Five," Coin-trick says quietly with amusement, gently rocking his hips in place against the edge of the bed, more and more of his leanly muscled legs being revealed as he lets his trousers drop to the floor, palm teasing over himself through his boxers, "But if what you say is true, you're not doing very well at breaking tradition."

A few more donations come through, after that, some people understanding what was going on, others simply responding to the show— Hank finds himself gently nudging against his warm palm in time with the rock of Coin-trick's hips, mesmerized and becoming almost painfully hard. Each ding of a donation coincides with a twitch of his hips, until he's reaching behind him to pick up a small, hidden item, which he shows to the camera.

It's a simple, black wireless remote.

"Some of you were very astute," His free hand comes down to rub over the head of his dick gently through the tight material, "a donation does the same thing as if I pressed this button."

As if to demonstrate, he presses and holds it for a moment, the muscles in his inner-thighs visibly jumping as they minutely stiffen, lips parting and his tongue darting out to swipe at his lips.

"Should I show you?" Coin-trick murmurs, as if it were even a question. Hank groans a _yeah_ to himself under his breath, feeling like a dirty old man for how much he wants the streamer to take his damn boxers off. He doesn't have to wait for long, though, before the android is drawing his knees up onto the bed, slipping his briefs off but keeping himself hidden by positioning his legs in front of him. Leaning forward, he pulls the camera a little closer to a view more similar to that of Hank's private stream, the partly-above view angle showing off the line of his body when he lays down, while keeping his upper-face hidden.

Hank's hand dips under the waistband of his boxers, teasing the rough pads of his fingers over the thickness of his cock, his eyes locked on the stream when Coin-trick very gently parts where his legs are drawn up to his chest, just enough to reveal the flustered length of his erect cock and where it stands semi-firmly over his small sack. But even that isn't a good enough description for what makes Hank's guts clench, a low murmur passing his lips.

"Can you... see it?" Coin-trick questions softly, parting his legs a little farther in a tease, his palm coming down to pull at the widest point of his thighs below his balls, though the gesture isn't needed to see the black object pressing there; a dark nub pressing against the underside of his package, the rest very clearly nestled between where his thighs round, which he trails his fingertips over now, "This is what you chose for me,"

"Jesus Christ," Hank hisses under his breath in a kind of hot-induced shock, tightening his grip around the base of his cock when it gives a hard twitch of arousal. Fuck. _Fuck,_ it had been there the whole time, _inside_ him, inside Coin-trick, who now parts his legs to each side, properly showing off where his length lays stiffly against his belly.

He wraps his fingers around the edge of the plug at the point it disappears inside of him, teasing it in place, the nub nudging against his package as he does so, the android's lips parting when the ding of a few more donations sounds. 

Without fabric in the way to muffle it any longer, Hank can hear a low buzz in time with the donations. 

"It's not necessary to donate," Coin-trick says, tilting his face to the side, showing off where the line of his jaw meets the column of his neck and not much else, and he presses the switch in his other hand again, "It will keep going like this, but I wanted—"

A couple small donations come in just as the android appears to press the button and nudge the plug into himself, cutting off his speech with a low, whisper of a gasp, "I wanted to give you a way to assert yourself, since I'm doing this with the purpose of thanking you."

The chat is eating it up, but Hank couldn't give a shit if they were or weren't, because the image of Coin-trick slowly thrusting the buried-plug in and out of himself, his dick flustered and rigid, is so fucking hot he can barely believe it. Coin-trick sets down the remote after flicking on what sounded like a slow, continuous pulse, an angular hand drifting down his chest to languidly run his palm over his erection, a quiet _ah_ passing his parted lips when he wraps his fingers around himself, pumping.

Without taking his eyes off the screen, Hank pushes down his boxers just enough to free his dick from where it had been tenting them, his opposite immediately curling around to sweep from crown to base, squeezing with a shallow-sounding groan. Coin-trick himself switches between unhurriedly stroking himself and thrusting the small, black plug into himself with an alternating buzz in the background

"'How does it feel'?'" Someone must have asked, because Coin-trick repeats it quietly like a question to himself, palm sweeping up to rub against the head of his dick, "It feels....good? Yes, that's it," He decides, "Good... full."

Hank groans at the word _full_ , the connotations doing more than enough work to rile him up, along with the rock of Coin-trick's hand against the toy, slowly thrusting it inside of himself. If _that_ felt full, then— his thumb slicks some pre-cum down the breadth of his cock, moving it in time with Coin-trick's slowly rocking hips.

"Oh," The android says, stomach muscles visibly tensing and relaxing before tensing again as the _buzz_ of more donations sounds, voice tighter, more breathy, taking on a tone of aroused amusement, "It's getting stronger. You a-all aren't helping, either."

"You want to see closer?" He murmurs contemplatively in answer to the chat, fisting his cock at a measuredly slow pace. Hank types in something to the donation bar immediately, one-handed, before he's using both to play with himself, one hand squeezing his heavy sack as the other pulls at the head of his cock, rubbing over his slit to smear the slick there with a deep grunt.

> _twinkluver_1985: show me_

_—_ Hank says, along with others, each donation prompting a buzz that sparks a soft whisper of sound from Coin-trick's lips, steadily getting more frequent as the stream continues. Coin-trick doesn't orally acknowledge the messages this time, instead going right to action— he reaches up to re-adjust the camera a little lower, one knee laying flat against so he can angle his hips upward, emphasizing the angle of his torso but mostly to show where he nudges the small toy in and out of himself, his slick hole (From what? Preparation, before the stream? S _hit_ ) visibly tightening around it. 

> _twinkluver_1985: look at you, so fucking gorgeous_

—Hank sends, a pang of something hot and tight twisting in his stomach like an ironic jolt of electricity when the message directly relates to a buzz under Coin-trick's fingers. It prompts a soft, bitten off noise from the android that makes Hank grip himself hard, fucking his hand in short stutters, his free hand scrabbling against his sheets with a low groan.

_"_ Wow, _"_ Coin-trick says too closely along the line of Hank's previous dream, as if it's something _curious_ , breathtaking in its own right, yet also warm and soft and _seductive_ , hips rocking into his palm like a mirror of his own, "It's almost— overwhelming, in a way, like I'm—"

The buzz of the toy starts to ramp up irrespective of the donations that serve to stutter its rhythm, Coin-trick's belly tensing and his knees moving up to support the press of his heels into the bed, just edging out of sight, " _Ah_..." 

He starts to nearly chuckle under his breath before the sound is swallowed up by a more pronounced, airy gasp, its lightness betrayed by the sharp, tight sweep of Coin-tricks hand over his flushed cock, seemingly unable to keep his grip on the toy any longer, instead coming up to creep over his throat, framing his mouth below taut fingers, lips parting and closing like he can't decide what to say.

Hank has one hand gripping hard in the sheets beside him, his other taut around his dick, stroking fast in the dark of his room to the sight of Coin-trick steadily moving closer to some edge— like he was, low moans in the secrecy of his room, lips parted and legs shaking. His hair stuck to his brow untended, at this point, skin feeling damp under his clothing and where his shirt has crept up over his stomach, but it's all a buzz of feeling in the background to the hard throb beneath his palm, that tight feeling mounting beneath it.

The image of Coin-trick's narrow body rocking against dark sheets in a way and at an angle that made it almost impossible for Hank not to unconsciously imagine— to not imagine himself above him. What his skin might feel like, if he pressed against it with his palm, if it would have the same flip between firm and soft like Connor's had when he'd pressed him against—

"It's—It's very hot," Coin-trick says suddenly, sounding strained and distant, like a question that begged an answer, one palm pressing against his mouth to muffle any louder sounds, the other moving tightly over the head of his cock, "I—?"

"Fuck," Hank hisses, hand ripping from the sheets so he can bite into the back of his knuckles with a deep, gruff groan, opposite fist moving fast, vision blurring as that tight sensation starts to unfurl, the highest jolt of pleasure that strikes him coinciding with the how Coin-trick's body suddenly tenses in the same event. The android's body jerks upward in little jolts and hardly concealed gasps, abs and chest becoming painted with the fruits of his labor just as Hank's grip turns slick with the shudder and tremble of cum marking his hand and stomach.

Hank pants hard and collapses onto his bed, nearly pulling his earphones out in the process, his laptop partially tipping off the pillow it had been balanced on.

Coin-trick is now similarly sprawled, thighs flat and gently rubbing against each other every now and then, having already reached to turn off the vibrating plug. Hank watches through one eye, lethargy quickly creeping up, as Coin-trick examines his dirtied hand.

"Was that...good?" He murmurs, pleased, and even more so when the inevitably positive feedback starts rolling in, made evident by the small smile that tugs across his flushed lips "I'm glad."

God, had it been. Hank felt like he was about to die, and for once he was completely at peace with the possibility.

Coin-trick reaches for the camera with his clean hand, bringing it up closer to his torso, where he shows the slick across his other hand, rubbing a finger through it lightly... before leaning down, pink tongue spreading across his palm to gather his spend, teeth snagging his lower lip as they close. Hank's gut clenches despite himself at the display— yeah, definitely felt like he was going to die. This is how it was going to end.

"I enjoyed myself, everyone," The android murmurs quietly, the low rumble of music in the background fading out, or maybe that was just Hank falling asleep, but the man's voice sounds almost fragile in its sincerity, "and it's thanks to you. I'm very grateful, I hope I've managed to properly articulate it."

"Until next time—" He smiles faintly, and the view is so close Hank finds himself unconsciously counting the freckles across his throat, "Goodnight."

—The stream goes to black, distinguishing all the light in Hank's room except for the latent light of his internet browser, and the flicker of text still streaming by along its side. He closes the laptop, pushing it off the pillow and onto the opposite side of the bed, then flops onto his back, still breathing fast.

Coin-trick, Connor, Niles. The same face, voice, but the way they carried themselves throughout life seemed so different. And yet, some felt closer than others, but in a way Hank couldn't be sure if it was something his mind made up in the heat of the moment, guilty and hot— the way he'd imagined, in a flash, how Connor's body had felt against his in the elevator that first afternoon, the alley, that drunken night. The gentle twinkle in Connor's eye when he'd teased Hank during the stakeout, tentative and quiet.

_Shit_. What the fuck was wrong with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for errors, i tried to proofread it the best i could but it just got. so long. oh my god. connor detroit, control yourself.
> 
> hmu at @rk69420 on twitter for my shitposting + yelling about other ppls fics + my ko/fi! thanks for reading, i appreciate you!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is a week off schedule. As my apology, here's a 12k monstrosity I should have cut into two chapters, to begin with...

It felt like long ago that Hank had come into the belief that the ebb and flow of his life was tied somehow—intrinsically linked, by some sweep of a wicked god's hand— to his deservingness. 

He'd fought it, of course. His demons may not have been able to be vanquished like a hero might at the climax of a movie, banished once and for all, but he'd damned well-fought tooth and nail to scrape his way through life, through his marriage, through his academy days, all the way up to the rank of lieutenant. None of it had been easy, but he'd been a fighter who was willing to enter the ring, no matter how many busted knuckles and invisible bruises it took... and not just for himself, either.

It had worked, for a time. He'd been able to spit in the eye of Life and say _fuck you_ with confidence _,_ knowing he was strong enough to weather the recourse, to have the courage to live in spite of the shadow that caught up to him at times when the sun was high enough to press it to his heels, or the new moon cruel enough to leave him robed in darkness. To be a good father, even when he could no longer be a good husband to a crumbling marriage, to be a good cop, even when the establishment could, at its darkest times, feel like a heavy hand dragging his wrist to obey... and to be a good man, for whatever that was worth.

The death of his son had changed all that, and now Hank was the one chasing his shadow— but his footsteps, at first a desperate, breakneck run, became slower all the time.

Hank stops mid-step, looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, its image all blurry and fogged-up, a series of fuzzy shapes that he could only make out as himself out of habit, unrecognizable to a stranger. 

He reaches out to run a hand across its surface, on some level aching to feel the gather of cool water beneath his pruned fingertips and the slip of glass, but hesitates, just short. The overhead fan rumbles and grinds, old and in disrepair, the sound roaring in the forefront of his mind like the rushing sea. It would be freezing, this time of year... it would swallow him up without an ounce of sentimentality.

Taking a breath in— inhaling in through his nose, and out through his mouth— his hand drops, and he turns away. 

Hank dresses in silence, the soft hiss of old starched fabric and the creak of the floorboards beneath his weight the _good morning_ that no one is there to say, his bed empty and his phone undisturbed. He's staring hard through the brewing glass of his dinky little coffee machine when something nudges his leg, wet and cold. 

"'Mornin', boy," He mumbles, reaching down to scratch his fingers through the dog's coarse fur, who rears his head back for better pets, his collar jingling, just as Hank turns to look at him.

Soft, gentle brown eyes.

Hank drinks his coffee burnt-black, heading to the station with an unconscious grimace pulled across his mouth.

When he arrives, RK900— Niles— is sitting at the desk opposite his, not Connor. 

"Find somewhere else to do...whatever it is you do," Hank throws his keys and holster down onto his desk with more force than was strictly necessary, "that seat's taken."

Niles stares at him impassively from Connor's seat chair, unmoving.

"Lieutenant," He says finally, voice deep and even, watching Hank shrug off his jacket, "I'll be accompanying you for the time being."

Hank halts, his jacket mid-way down his arms, accusation immediately jumping onto his face, "' _Scuse_ me?"

"Connor is otherwise occupied. He requested that I inform you of his temporary absence."

"You're shitting me," It's denial, outright, "Where the fuck did he go?"

Niles doesn't seem bothered by Hank's aggression— he doesn't seem affected by it at all, negatively _or_ positively.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Niles suggested languidly. It gets a rise out of Hank instantly.

"Why don't _you_ tell him he's got a goddamn job to do?"

"Hold it," He amends as soon as he's said it, grimacing, "Don't."

Instead, Hank pulls out his phone, having to try twice as hard not to fat-finger his responses with the tense, hot feeling that cages his windpipe.

> Hank : Mind explaining why i've got your terminator clone here and not you?
> 
> Hank : Yknow that guy who may or may not be trying to end my career

Connor replies nearly instantly.

> Connor : I'm sorry, lieutenant. Something came up.
> 
> Connor : Niles has graciously agreed to take over my duties as your partner in the meantime, in addition to his own assignment, which I can assure you is being conducted by an unbiased party.
> 
> Connor : I'm certain you'll be satisfied with his investigative analysis and interrogation capabilities, he was meant to be my successor model and is therefore from an analytical standpoint possesses superior strengths in nearly every sector.

He regrets texting over calling almost immediately, the tidy, well-composed replies causing that sensation in the pit of his chest to flare up, hot and wild. 

> Hank : Cut the shit, Connor
> 
> Connor : I'm fine, Hank.

Hank slams his phone closed onto the desk, feeling Niles's eyes follow his every move without so much as tilting his head, his posture drawn tall and stiff just out of his peripheral vision, though entirely unlike the awkward, tentative way Connor had first affected upon his arrival to the station. Where the other android had sat at his desk as a child might at an adult's dinner party, his legs hanging loosely over the edge of a chair too-big, Niles looked as out of place as a prince might at the counter of a dingy dive bar. 

What they have in common, however, is that as of this moment, Hank can't figure _either_ of them out, and it's pissing him off.

"Fuck this," Hank hisses under his breath (though pointedly in Niles's direction), ready to cut his losses and get lost in some sticky and sickly corner of Jimmy's bar until this blew over. He isn't so lucky, because Fowler chooses right then to drop a manila folder onto his desk, already drawing himself up to defend against Hank's admittedly usual ire.

"Get to work," Fowler doesn't so much as look at Niles's, meaning Connor must have already informed him— it doesn't help, "Press is already there."

"Can't Reed get this? I'm kinda tied up, here," Hank gestures to his desk like he hadn't been about to run out in favor of getting smashed. Fowler looks firmly unconvinced, and Hank knows what _that_ means.

"Believe it or not, everyone's up to their eyeballs in this shit. Reed and Chen are on a warrant run," Fowler gestures toward the lobby, "so you're up."

Hank is still white-knuckling the edge of his desk long after Fowler is gone, glaring hard at nothing in particular on his cubical divider. He breathes in through his mouth, out through his nose, and absentmindedly thumbs the edge of the manila folder, mind rushing through a million half-baked excuses he could give to leave and not come back until he was metaphorically kicking and screaming.

When he rises from his chair a moment later, he throws a cursory glance in Nine's direction, baring his teeth.

"'You coming or not?"

Niles's says nothing, rising to his feet.

\---

Much of the snow that had coated the streets in intermittent flurries the past few weeks has now begun to thaw, creating a dirty-looking slush at the edges of the roads and a particular smell that felt distinctly _Michigan._ It may not have been cold enough to retain the bulk of the snow, but it was still cool enough to bite into the cracks in Hank's rough knuckles, pulled taut where he grips his steering wheel, Niles's in the passenger seat beside him.

"He said it was just a robbery—" Hank says gruffly without looking off the road, cautious about where the streets may be slick, but also wanting nothing to do with the android, "Why've we got press already?"

"The crime scene is in a highly populated area downtown," Niles's responds placidly, his palms spread just above his knees, "An android matching the description of an YK500 was seen retreating through a broken window with an allegedly stolen item. A neighbor called law enforcement."

A YK500... A child android model. Hank's teeth find the inside of his cheek.

"Any casualties?"

"None."

"Witnesses?"

"Yes, the neighbor who spotted the android and a child who was present in the home at the time of the burglary."

Hank hisses through his teeth. Kids were always a mixed bag in these situations. Sure, they could tell the truth at the drop of a hat, but they could lie just as quickly, for a myriad of reasons. Both could prove to be unconvincing testimonies, whether they were truthful or not.

"Parents?"

"The mother...," Niles's trails off as they pull up to the small brick-patterned house with a throng of reporters chattering on the sidewalk beside it, his LED cycling blue for a second out of the corner of Hank's eye, "She arrived at the scene several moments ago. Her wife is currently in New York at a business conference. She has been notified."

Hank hauls himself out of the front seat and heads toward the house's front door where Officer Chris could be seen standing, completely ignoring the group who immediately tried to descend upon him, holo-recorders in hand, throwing questions at him in growingly urgent tones—

"Why would an android need to burglarize a home, lieutenant?"

"Lieutenant Anderson, were they dangerous?"

"What are you doing to stem the rise of android violence, Lieutenant Anderson?" 

"Is it true it was a child?" 

"Who is the android with you?"

Hank looks back to confirm that Niles is following behind him and that the press is staying off the property, a few daring to throw a few pointed questions at the android himself, even if they go ignored. Something about the image of Niles following behind him makes Hank frown, an unconscious yank of his lips sideways. He's surprised when the android steps in front of him, addressing Chris first.

"Officer," He notes evenly but doesn't extend his hand in greeting, "I'm an RK900 unit assisting Lieutenant Anderson on a temporary basis. We're here to assess the situation."

"Oh..." Chris starts, clearly trying to stifle a confused look, which he then directs toward Hank, instead, "Another...?"

Hank waves him off at once, cutting in front of Niles. 

"Emphasis on that _temporary_ bit _—_ where's the girl?"

"Inside, with her mother," Chris steps aside to let them in, gesturing toward a carpet-covered staircase, "They're interviewing her right now, upstairs. The neighbor who called it in has already been escorted home."

Hank heads for the staircase, throwing a glance behind him as he hits the first step— Niles is still close behind, his eyes trailing over the living room and kitchen as they climb the stairs. 

"Baby, come on," A woman's voice trails from the room nearest to the top of the stairs, and Hank heads for it, "You can tell them what happened, I promise no one is going to hurt you, you're safe now."

It's undoubtedly the child's mother, one arm wrapped loosely around a little girl's shoulders, her curly hair hanging long and unruly in a way that matches the mother's hair to a tee. Her brows are drawn into a worried mask, but it's nowhere near as uncomfortable as the look of unease on the daughter's face. 

Hank knocks lightly on the open door to signal their arrival. Both the mother and Officer Person turn toward him— Person takes a step forward, relief clear on her features.

"Mrs. Ensley, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson."

Mrs. Ensley straightens up when she's addressed, her hand resting on the child's shoulder, who is looking very firmly at the ground. Hank raises his hands in something like defeat, stepping into the room while pushing his jacket down to cover the gun holster at his belt.

"I just have a few questions for your daughter and then we'll be out of your hair, Ma'am."

She nods, rubbing a hand over the little girl's shoulder— she'd already been through the whole song and dance with Person but is at least willing. Hank hitches up his pants to squat down in front of the wild-haired girl, his hands on his knees. When he speaks, it's softly, but seriously.

"What's your name?"

"Taylor..." 

Taylor doesn't look up from the marled cream carpet, her hands clenched together in front of her gingham dress.

"Nice to meet you, Taylor, I'm Mr. Anderson," He starts, "Why don't you tell me what happened? I promise I won't be mad, and neither will either of your mothers."

Taylor stays quiet, her light brows furrowing, lips working as she frets.

"Did you see who it was, Taylor?" Hank presses gently, bringing a hand up to tap his own temple, "Did they had that neat little blue light right here?"

She looks up, at that, her eyes wide in a way that immediately confirmed to Hank that it _had_ been an android, no doubt about it. Her eyes now lifted from the carpet, Taylor seems to spot Niles for the first time, the android having stayed in the doorway to the small bedroom, and immediately raises a finger to point at him insistently.

"Him," she says. Hank raises an eyebrow, but she isn't done yet, "I want to talk to him..."

Hank hopes the incredulous look on his face isn't too obviously insulting, but it doesn't matter since everyone in the room was now looking at Niles— who looks by far the most indifferent to the reaction. He stares for a second longer before stepping into the room, addressing Person and Mrs. Ensley first and foremost.

"I think it would be in the best interest of the case for unnecessary individuals to stand out of earshot."

Mrs. Ensley frowns, "I'm staying."

"That is acceptable... if you're out of the way." Niles takes a step farther into the room to stand near the opposite wall, Person moving to wait in the hall to create space. 

Taylor hesitantly breaks from her mother, taking little steps up to Niles' impassive figure and tugging on his sleeve. He watches this with a bland look— like he doesn't get it, or is purposely ignoring it— before bending down so the little girl can cup her hands beside his ear as if she were telling another schoolchild a playground secret.

Hank can only watch with bafflement. Niles's face stays completely still as she whispers to him, his LED calm and unchanging, save for the single cycle of its blue as she pulls away. When he straightens up to face the adult group, Taylor visibly shrinks where she stands, not so subtly trying to edge behind Niles's imposing figure.

"There was no crime. Miss Ensley accidentally broke the window while playing with the YK500 unit in the house."

Mrs. Ensley is openly bewildered, "What—"

"She hesitated to tell you as she was afraid of letting you know she was having relations with an android," Niles supplies, crossing his arms over his chest.

Taylor, whose lip had been quivering for quite some time already, finally bursts into tears.

"Don't be mad!" She rubs her face, fat tears running down her cheeks, "She's my friend!"

Mrs. Ensley at once crosses the room, gathering Taylor into a hug. Niles takes a step back, watching the exchange for a moment before turning and leaving the room. Hank looks away.

"I'm not mad, honey, it's okay," Mrs. Ensley pats Tayor's hair soothingly, casting an apologetic (and appropriately, slightly embarrassed) look toward Hank and Person, "You should have introduced me to your friend."

Hank stays for a few more moments to confirm some details with Mrs. Ensley and Person, as they would attempt to locate the YK500 for their own safety before he too leaves, spotting Niles at the bottom of the staircase, his hands loosely folded against his back, just as he'd done on Hank's doorstep the previous week.

"She spilled awful fast to you," Hank comments like it's painful, hooking his thumbs into his pockets at the base of the stairs.

"She assumed I was more trustworthy given that I'm an android, like the YK500. It was convenient she was willing to tell the truth... though unnecessary."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Niles turns toward Hank now, looking around the room slowly.

"I already knew the YK500 was innocent."

Hank squints at Niles, suspicious, "And how's that?"

"There are multiple valuables out in the open within the room the android was said to have escaped from, suggesting that their purpose was not financial gain," He takes a slow step forward, the old building creaking a little under his weight, "Nor could a YK500 have carried much, regardless, given their more delicate build standards."

Uncrossing his arms, he extends a loose fingertip toward the back-door where the window had been broken, still hanging ajar.

"There are recent fingerprints on the back door where the window was broken belonging to Miss Ensley. The break pattern on the glass fragments in the door window is too small to have been from a YK500's body, and it projects outward instead of inward, meaning the likelihood of it being a forcible entry is minute. There is no Thirium present in the withstanding windowpane, and although some are present on the glass on the ground outside, it is 99.34-percent likely to be from a superficial wound, potentially sustained during a sudden exit."

"Finally," He lowers his hand, turning back toward Hank, "There is a ball outside the door with Miss Ensley fingerprints on it, with glass dust present on its surface. A reconstruction of potential events led me to conclude that Miss Ensley and the YK500 were playing unbeknownst to their guardians when they accidentally broke the window. The YK500 fled in fear of discovery, which is when the neighbor saw her and made the report, misrepresenting the YK500's actions with conjecture based upon what they believed, rather than what they saw directly." 

At some point, Hank remembers to close his mouth, frowning in place of his disbelief, "And you noticed all of this _when?"_

_"_ When we first entered the house, lieutenant, It was fairly obvious."

"Fuckin'..." Hank runs a hand through his hair, "The caller said she had something with her."

Niles is nonplussed by the detail, shrugging his shoulders minutely, "It was a gift. One of her stuffed toys. I imagine she will explain as much to her mother and Officer Person shortly."

"Well, shit. Case closed," Despite Niles's involvement, Hank isn't complaining, heading for the front door, 'Guess we should be thankful..."

Niles's face suddenly snaps to the side, toward the doorway. "Detective Reed is calling for backup."

Hank blinks, looking at the android with confusion, "What?" 

Then he hears the distant rumble of his radio by the lawn, still in his car. They both start toward the door at once, but Niles grabs Hank's shoulder, the solid grip of his fingers enough to stop him in his tracks.

"If I may— you should walk slowly, lieutenant." Niles's lips purse into a light line, "There are still reporters outside." 

The moment Niles lets go of Hank's shoulder, he's moving quickly to his car anyway, yanking the radio off his dash as soon as the door is shut next to him. 

Gavin's voice comes through the speaker in static bursts, "Thirty, thirty, thirty— I'm at, uh—"

"Fuck, that's close," The address is on a street Hank recognizes. He turns on the ignition and yanks his seatbelt on one-handed, already pressing the radio to his mouth, "Reed, you copy?"

Niles slips into the passenger seat smoothly a moment later, pulling his seatbelt on in the same motion. There's another burst of static as the radio comes to life, the telltale sound of gunshots rending holes in any semblance of temporary peace Hank may have gained from the Ensley investigation, filling the spaces left to the brim with adrenaline.

"From our current location, we would arrive at the scene approximately ten minutes prior to the next closest unit, lieutenant," Though it's unnecessary for Niles to point it out because Hank is already pulling out of the driveway. 

They make it to the location in eight minutes flat, pulling up aside an empty police cruiser.

"Lieutenant," Niles turns an eye on Hank, who is slipping on his bulletproof vest, one foot already out the door, "I would like to advise that you remain in your vehicle. My chassis is reinforced two-point-five-times better than your bulletproof vest."

"Fuck you," Hank spits without looking, sliding a hand along his belt holster, checking its weight by touch, "let's go."

They find Tina first, a floor above the dingy unit they must have meant to serve the warrant at. Hank jogs down the worn hall toward her once he sees the coast is clear, his pistol now drawn and at the ready. She's clutching her arm, the hand pressing to her upper bicep red with blood. Despite this, she waves off Hank with a shake of her head, grimacing in pain.

"I'm fine— I'm good, go find Gavin, 'fucker's—" She hisses, gripping her arm, "—got him pinned down, somewhere, on the roof. He's got my firearm."

Hank nods, heading down the hall with heavy footsteps, and there's no point in concealing them, because Niles is already halfway there, pressing himself next to the scuffed metal door, his LED cycling blue, then yellow.

"Their heat signatures are up ahead," Niles says quietly, and for the first time, Hank witnesses an RK model personally draw a weapon— a handgun tucked under the breast of his white jacket, "Detective Reed is injured."

Niles points in the direction of the suspect through the wall. Hank nods and they burst through the door at once, his voice ringing through the air in warning, "Detroit PD! Hands in the air!"

The rooftop is dotted in bulky air-conditioning units and generators, their whir almost masking the sound of a winter wind moving across its surface. Its dingy surface is dotted in clumps of snow here and there, almost entirely melted into the grime of the cement surface, creating a sickly, gray slush. 

It makes sense that the bright red of Gavin's blood would stand out against it. Hank sucks in a breath, his eyes flicking toward where the detective is hunched over partway behind a faded green generator, one hand pressed to his side, his other propped up on top of the machinery, pistol in hand. He looks angry— it's a good sign.

"Drop it, motherfucker!" Gavin's voice rings out, and Niles is rapidly moving in the direction where they'd located the suspect prior— Hank curses before jogging in the same direction, ducking around an AC unit to the left to hug the wall, following where it dips in. He can hear Nile's footfalls from his right and rushes to meet his pace— the suspect comes into view as the roof narrows into a corner, a gun raised in the android's direction.

Hank can see the realization that there are two of them cross the man's face, angry and twisted in panic, and when it doesn't result in a gunshot, his aim jerking back from one of them to the other— he knows for certain the suspect is out of ammo. He surges forward just as the suspect decides to make a run for it, choosing Hank's direction to test his chances.

"Lieutenant—" Niles calls from beyond the clutter of machinery in warning, but Hank is ready. He doesn't let it get to his ego that the guy takes his chances with the human instead of the android because if there's one thing Hank knew he could still do... it's throw a mean right hook.

Hank's fist collides with his face just as the guy makes a grab for his vest. The suspect's body tumbles back into the wall, but he grabs a fistful of Hank's jacket along the way, trying to pull him down with him. He leans back on his heels to stop from falling, but the suspect tries to sweep his legs next— Hank avoids it by dropping his weight onto one heel forward, bracketing him in, his other shoe coming down to stomp at the tender inner flesh of the man's ankle. The pain rips out of the suspect's mouth in a nearly primal scream, bingo.

—But it doesn't stop him as it should. The man bares his teeth, spittle gritting through them as he wheezes, surging from the ground at Hank with his ankle at an angle— under the effects of Red Ice, for sure. Hank's back collides with the air conditioning unit behind him as the man jabs him fast in the ribs, but it's a calculated injury on the lieutenant's part because it left his face open for another slug. 

"Give it up, already—" Hank hisses as they tumble toward the roof barrier behind them, Hank's fingers scrambling to seize one of the man's arms to try to flip him around and pin him, who chooses that moment to pull a knife from his jacket, arm whipping up to try to slash at Hank's face. He reels backward and out of the way, the blade whizzing by his cheek, but the man rushes forward, gripping his shoulder to instead whip _Hank_ around, holding the knife to his throat.

Hank can see Niles around the corner, his pistol raised— likely waiting for a moment to intervene that wouldn't get the lieutenant killed. So much for that. The man pulls the knife, a gritty, dirty thing, flush against the stubble at Hank's throat, breathing hard enough that the lieutenant can feel the heave of his chest behind him. He's trembling, no doubt the effect of the Red Ice.

He backs up against the edge of the roof when Niles steps forward, voice low, "Release him." 

"Fuck you!" The man at his throat grits, wild, "Fucking pigs!"

Yeah, Hank knows how this kinda thing goes, and he isn't willing to wait for it. 

Exhaling as much air as he could, Hank jerks his hand up against the sensitive flesh of the man's wrist holding the knife at the same instant as he stomps back against the suspect's weakened ankle, the movement shifting him off balance just enough to knock the knife out of his shaking fingers. He spins backward toward the edge of the roof— Hank throws an arm out to catch him, but the man takes it in clawing fingertips to instead haul Hank along with him, pushing him partway over the barrier. 

The man's breath stinks in Hank's face where it's pressed up close to him, his reddened eyes crazed from what would likely be his last overdose, dripping a mixture of blood and spit from his bruising mouth onto his shirt. Hank feels his feet start to leave the concrete flooring— the suspect is pulling him along to their mutual demise, aiming to 'escape' right over the edge of the building. Hank's shoes scramble for purchase, hands wrapping around the man's wrists until his nails are digging into skin, but it doesn't the man in his crazed high, who makes a grab for Hank's pistol next. He struggles with the latch at the angle they're both leaned over the barrier, held partially in place by the lieutenant's stronghold. The latch almost opens—

—And there's a loud sound, like a sudden crack of lightning, and Hank suddenly feels... _wet,_ for lack of a better word, slipping partway off the roof when the suspect's body goes limp and heavy against him. He manages to catch his grip on the barrier with the aid of the suspect's deadweight, dragging himself over its slick edge, trying not to pay attention to the blood and brain matter that was smeared down the front of his shirt once he was safely back on solid ground.

"Jesus fucking Christ—" Hank hisses realizing it had been a headshot, fingers feeling numb, heart racing and eyes wide at Niles's stoic figure, whose pistol is now hanging at his side. He purposely avoids looking at the suspect's body, and instead turns his ire onto the android, "You couldn't have waited until I wasn't fucking dangling off a roof to blow his brains out?"

Niles doesn't respond at first, holstering his pistol before shrugging his jacket off, its white surface speckled in a brief mist of blood. 

He folds it over his arm impassively, turning half-lidded eyes onto the lieutenant, "...The chances of you falling were exceedingly low in comparison to the dangers presented by him acquiring your firearm, both to you, myself, and the other officers present."

"My _chances_ , huh?" Hank hisses in his direction with teeth bared, ripping his jacket off after he yanks the radio from his chest, "Is that what my life is to you, a probability? Did you ever consider not rushing in there by your fuckin' self in the first place?"

"I made the logical choice based on the information available, along with the potential victims the suspect had the likelihood of harming were he to use Officer Chen's weapon to secure his escape. Additionally, he could have overwhelmed Detective Reed and gained access to his firearm, as well." Niles turns his cheek to cast a glance in Gavin's direction, where the man has now slumped to the ground against the machine unit, "So your assertion is correct."

Fuck, Hank could slug him. He'd probably bruise his knuckles doing it, but it might be worth it, if not for Reed and Chen needing medical attention, Gavin potentially urgently. The sound of distant sirens signals the support unit's arrival, keeping Hank grounded despite the rush of adrenaline and dampened shock itching up his fingertips, urging him to give in.

"Shit, I'm getting the ambulance," He stalks toward the roof entrance, stepping carefully around blood-splatter, and bares his teeth at Niles when he brushes by him, "And don't you _fucking_ move!"

Niles offers nothing in response.

\---

Hank collapses onto his couch some six hours later, tired out of his mind in more ways than one. There's a beer held loosely between his fingers, and he presses it to his forehead, closing his eyes and sighing when his thoughts shift from dead-even to dizzying from one moment to the next. The languid sound of jazz flickers from his record player and the TV bathes him in light, all sights and sounds intended to distract some part of him from the thoughts that always came after days like this.

Death may be something he encountered fairly frequently in his profession over the years, but it never became _less_ of what it was, even if it was routine; the knowledge that something that had previously been living no longer _was_ , whether it happened in front of him, or— more frequently— whether they were mere observers to something they could never reverse, and only try to prevent from happening again.

Niles had made it worse, in his own way. The android hadn't been _wrong_ , really, outside of his methods, but Hank doesn't have to kid himself to know that it wasn't the reason he'd been so scuffed by his temporary partnership with the RK900 model. The Ensley case had been illuminating as to the capabilities of the RK900, and even if there were things he could criticize, he'd made it off that rooftop alive. No, it wasn't any that. It's because Niles wasn't _Connor._

Hank doesn't think Connor would have left that little girl without saying goodbye. But he isn't sure if he wouldn't have taken the shot at the Red Ice suspect if it came down to it. Connor's face after he'd shot Jakob comes to mind, immediately followed by the phantom sensation of Connor's Thirium slick against his fingers. The grip of his hand against Hank's arm, pleading— for what, justice? It was entirely unlike the stiff and unyielding clamp of Niles's hand over his shoulder earlier that day.

The lieutenant sags against the couch with a groan, picking up his phone and grimacing at its screen: zero messages. He opens his instant messages, navigating to _Connor,_ stares at the blank text box for a long time before typing anything.

> Hank : Your twin is an asshole

Is what he settles on, and to his surprise and faint chagrin, Connor answers immediately.

> Connor : He isn't. He's just eccentric.
> 
> Hank : My fat ass he isn't
> 
> Hank : Pretty sure the turtleneck is just so people aren't as tempted to strangle him
> 
> Connor : Is it working?
> 
> Hank : Nope
> 
> Connor : Did something happen?

Hank pauses, thumb hovering over _send._

> Hank : No
> 
> Connor : I get the feeling you're not being entirely honest with me, lieutenant.
> 
> Hank : Oh yeah?
> 
> Hank : So what happened to 'I'm fine'?
> 
> Connor : It's only a temporary issue. Some maintenance should resolve the problem.

Yeah, it seems likely— not. Connor had never been late, before, and had returned to work the moment he could even after getting shot, _twice._ Hank takes a deep breath. He isn't entitled to the reason.

> Hank : Ok whatever
> 
> Hank : Don't gotta talk to me
> 
> Hank : But don't come back busted
> 
> Hank : Or fowler's gonna to be on my ass like a cat in heat.
> 
> Connor : Are you telling me to take care of myself, Hank?
> 
> Hank : That's not what i said
> 
> Hank : So no

Connor doesn't reply, after that. Hank drops his phone onto his chest, finishes off the rest of his beer in one go. The song changes to a crooner, he closes his eyes. His phone vibrates against his chest.

> Connor : May I ask you something, lieutenant? 
> 
> Connor : You're entirely within your rights to deny my proposition on the basis of it being sudden, inappropriate, or simply unwanted. I am mainly asking to demonstrate my willingness to provide a similar support, should you need it, in order to develop our working relationship.

Hank blinks, rereads it.

> Hank : What
> 
> Connor : It is currently difficult to conduct my maintenance at my place of living for several reasons outside of my control. I was wondering If I could inconvenience you to conduct it at your place of living instead. It would be only temporary, for a few hours maximum just this once, after which I would likely be able to resume my temporary position at the DPD in the morning.
> 
> Hank : Are you asking to come over?
> 
> Connor : Yes.
> 
> Hank : Uh

At first, he isn't sure what to say— he gets what Connor is asking according to his sterile explanation, but it's enough to catch him off guard, brows dragging in. The text signaling that the android is typing pops up at the bottom of the text box, and Hank hurriedly types something else, realizing where he left off could be... misleading.

> Hank : Sure I guess
> 
> Hank : As long as you don't watch me sleep or something

The messages show up as _read._ A few minutes later, there's a polite knock on Hank's door— Sumo is jumping to his feet and running to the door before the lieutenant can even bring up the text that buzzes his phone at the same moment.

> Connor : I'm outside.

"Hey, hey," Hank shushes, pushing the massive dog's face away from the door as Sumo barks and whines while dancing from paw to paw with excitement. One hand still shoved against the beast's face to keep him back, Hank pulls the door open, still speaking to the animal, "You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood, Jesus."

Connor is standing on the doormat with his hands folded in front of him, not unlike how he'd greeted Hank the other day, the neutral expression across his face shifting into one of quiet amusement as he takes in the _Sumo Situation_. Hank takes that moment to look him over, expecting to see something— some kind of outward detail that would disclose the reason for his absence without the need for an explanation, like the sight of a physical wound you expressed sympathy for without the invitation for vulnerability.

Of course, there's nothing. That would be too easy, even for a human. Hank should know that from experience, and yet...

"Hey."

A light snowfall has begun once again. A few stray snowflakes have landed in Connor's hair and on the tops of his shoulders, the rest drifting to nest here and there on the doorstep and driveway, and for the moment it's slow and picturesque, where it would later become slick and dangerous.

"Hi, Hank."

Hank belated realizes he's still staring and runs his mouth at the same moment Connor chooses to speak, their voices overlapping:

"You wanna come in?"

"May I come in?"

"Yeah," He steps back, clearing his throat and pushing Sumo farther into the house to make room, muttering, "That was fuckin' fast, shit."

"I don't live very far," Connor tips his face down toward the dog rushing up to him excitedly with a faint smile, kneeling down to rub behind his ears, "Hi, Sumo."

Sumo is visibly ecstatic about the visitor, and despite everything, Hank finds himself smirking at the sight when the dog tries to lick Connor's face with a delighted _borf_.

"You don't have to do that," The android says when Hank crosses the room to the record player, which was currently playing a swinging jazz improvisation he'd become rather fond after a dozen or so listens of thinking it was senseless crap.

"S'fine, should probably wrap this up soon anyway," Hank shrugs, reaching for the tonearm. 

"Please. I insist," Connor touches his arm, just above where his sleeve revealed skin, scrubbed clean of the blood from several hours prior, "I'd like to listen."

Hank hums noncommittally under his breath, pulling his hand back and turning away when Connor starts to slip off his jacket as if he were seeing something forbidden. It's the first time he's seen him without it, even if he should have a sense of what it looked like, given Niles had taken off his jacket just that afternoon. The white of Connor's shirt frames his narrow torso in a way Hank might have thought to look like a lightweight on anyone else, but Hank knows different: that the same features were made up of something stronger than he could ever have hoped to be.

So why does Hank feel like his very presence is oppressive, stifling and burdensome? Like Connor could crumble beneath his only-human strength the same way someone might accidentally harm a butterfly you only ever _wanted_ to admire, or perhaps just the petrified wings pinned to a board that were perfect and beautiful but crumbled the moment you touched them.

He sets down the record slip and instead grabs another beer from the fridge, heading to the couch, trying to push any thought of Niles  _and_ anything after that out of his head. He was one beer too many in for that line of thought, and one too few to chase it away. It's a problem he could fix, so he gets to it.

"I'd offer you something to drink, but..." Hank shrugs, setting the bottle down on the TV-stand, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows for comfort before sinking onto the couch unceremoniously, "Guess I'm taking this one alone."

Wordlessly, Connor takes the cushion on the opposite end of the couch, folding his hands in his lap. The TV flashes as the screen flips from darker close-ups of the players to wide-shots that cast the living-rooming in brightness from the fluorescent-lit stadium, its sound on the lowest setting with captions enabled.

"So. Maintenance," Hank starts slow, eyes on the TV, "You need to lay down, or..."

"No, that's alright," Connor leans against the arm of the couch, "I can conduct it right here, just the way I am."

Hank's blank look in his direction probably says it all, but just in case, "You tellin' me you couldn't _sit_ at home?"

"No..." Connor starts, "Not for long. It's an apartment complex."

"Huh," Hank brings the new bottle of beer to his lips, tipping it back, "Somehow I figured you slept standing up in a CyberLife coffin somewhere, or something like that."

"Not anymore," Connor replies so casually that Hank can't stifle the snort that threatens to send booze up his nose, "Markus thought it best we seek out our own living quarters in an effort to aid us with individualizing."

"You know the guy well?"

A smirk threatens to pull up one corner of Connor's mouth— Hank can see it in the way it twitches.

"Surely you know the answer to that already, lieutenant."

" _The Negotiator,"_ Hank says it in an ominous tone like it's a funny story, remembering seeing the headlines before the March, though not Connor specifically, _"_ And just because you work together doesn't mean you know him," He takes a sip of his beer, grimacing, "Shit, look at _Reed_."

"On the contrary, lieutenant," Connor tilts his face in Hank's direction, raising a brow, "I'd gather you feel as if you know Detective Reed _too_ well."

"Ugh. You're right," He scoffs, rubbing his nose with a weary grumble, "That cocksucker."

The song on the record shifts into something else, the previous swinging jazz ensemble fading into another low crooner, moody and slow in a way that makes him tap his foot unconsciously. Hank settles in, his beer finished and the pleasant buzz making him nearly immediately sleepy given the events of the day. Connor doesn't speak for a long while— long enough that Hank just assumes he's gone into stasis or whatever his maintenance entailed, a furtive glance or two confirming that the android hadn't moved an inch.

Hank has just started to spread out a little farther on the couch in semi-cognizance, head leaned back against the cushions in a doze when Connor speaks, quietly, his eyes still on the flickering TV.

"I owe my life to Markus... As do many of us," Idly, Connor's fingers of the hand closest to Hank start to lift slowly in order, as if he was juggling an invisible object, going through the motions, "Even if he can be an enigma to both strangers and peers alike at times, that much is undeniable."

Drawn to the movement in his weary and slightly inebriated state, Hank watches the draw and pull of the faux tendons in Connor's hands rise in a line, each loosely bent digit rising and falling in order, the lull of the android's voice drifting in and out of Hank's ears just as smooth as Ella's voice from the record player in the corner. 

"There are not many who would have willingly taken on the responsibility he and the others have, let alone made the sacrifices they had to make in order to grant us self-determination."

"Yeah, sounds ' _real_ close," Hank chuckles, the sound rough and scratchy, and Connor's hand stops its movement, laying flat against the couch. "for someone writing a biography, maybe."

It's quiet again for a long while. Without another beer in his system to stem the flow, the usual thoughts have started to creep in again: the pound of adrenaline, his gun in his hand, the look on the Red Ice perp's bruising face just a moment before it was unrecognizable, other things, too. Things Hank didn't have the energy to push down but is thankfully too weary to act on, as ironic a blessing that is, one surfacing with increasing frequency. Hank lightly drums the fingers of one hand against his thigh, head leaning closer and closer to his own shoulder.

"Why d'you even need maintenance, anyway?" He says sleepily, looking at someone score in the Gears game, but not _watching_ it, per se, "They leave something in there the last time they opened you up?"

"No, it's not that. Just some minor malfunctions. I should be fine after initiating temporary stasis."

Hank wants to ask, _what is a minor malfunction for a fancy CyberLife prototype,_ but he's too far gone, his lips parting to say the words but nothing ever coming out until his body feels very heavy. Connor is gently grasping his shoulder, and in Hank's half-awake state he finds himself noticing the subtle way the pad of the android's thumb presses a little hard into the flesh of his shoulder like all of his awareness is pulsing to the single point of its connection, leaving the rest of him paralyzed. 

"Hank," Connor murmurs softly, he thinks, pushing his palm against the broad of his shoulder, not quite shaking so much as just leaning his weight against it, "Hank."

All he's really aware of is the weight: firm, and unhesitant. It's unlike Connor's voice, although both soften the same when Hank can muster a distant sound of acknowledgment, eyelids fluttering. 

"You'll be sore if you sleep here," he might have said. But it might have been someone else, a different body, some dreaming delusion. Connor might still be sitting across from him on the couch, unmoving, in stasis— or maybe, he was helping Hank up from the couch, closer to carrying him than  _helping_ , strictly. Regardless, Hank ended up in bed, somehow.

 

He thinks he might have said something to Connor then, but it's gone, now.

 

"Goodnight, Hank."

 

—That one he remembers.

 

\---

 

The next afternoon, Connor greets him outside the station, the past forty-eight hours lacking from his demeanor. But it isn't removed from Hank's— because he bothered to eat breakfast that morning, though it wasn't out of his own doing.

When he'd awoken late in the morning, still fully dressed in his comfort wear from the previous day, a pot of coffee had been sitting brewed on the latent burner, along with a small plate of pancakes and the last of some slightly freezer-burnt bacon he'd been too lazy to finish off, all covered with a plate. There was no note— it was unnecessary. Hank doesn't quite know how to feel about that realization, especially. 

Is it because there was no one else, including himself, who would do such a thing, or that it had been Connor specifically?

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

Hank's phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it, instead of waving a hand at Connor with a groan when the android falls into step beside him, face turned toward him as they walk.

"God, don't remind me." 

Connor blinks, "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothin', your weird face just reminded me I should have hung myself while I still had the chance." 

At the flicker of yellow on Connor's LED, Hank feels the need to gruffly acknowledge the domestic favor, very specifically making eye contact with the pockmarks in a stapler on the lobby desk they pass instead of anything living, "And uh... thanks for breakfast. You really didn't have to bother with that shit."

"Not at all, I enjoyed it," Connor comments lightly with a hint of a smirk, lacing his fingers behind his back as they enter the bullpen, "I think Sumo enjoyed the company, too."

"Attention hog," Hank scoffs, "don't get him started, he'll never stop."

"Is there a particular reason seeing my face made you want to strangle yourself, lieutenant?"

Hank feels incredibly exhausted all of a sudden, directly correlating to the moment he glanced across the bullpen.

"There he is."

Niles is standing at Gavin's desk, talking to the detective.

"Oh."

"Connor," Niles acknowledges, and almost as an afterthought, "Lieutenant."

"Hello, Niles," Connor's eyes flick to the side, where Gavin is watching the exchange with a look of pure misery, "Detective Reed."

Going by the bandages poking up over the underside of his shirt, the misery is more than psychological. But Hank's attention is elsewhere— he stifles the urge to do a double-take at the two RK-model androids now standing side-by-side, mirroring the switch between professional and casual in a way that could only be ironic for how different they were in seemingly every other way.

It could almost be funny if Hank weren't filled with something that fizzled hot and ugly in a way he couldn't put his finger on now that they were at the Station— silent but steady, which arguably makes him feel worse.

"Lieutenant, I'd like to go over the evidence from the incident involving Detective Reed and Officer Chen," Niles has apparently declined to comment on the android's return directly, which he is _somewhat_ thankful for, "Perhaps you could accompany us, Connor."

Never mind, Hank hates it.

Niles started toward the direction of the Evidence Archives, and with Connor walking after him without a second look, leaving Hank no moral choice but to follow. 

"You mentioned an incident?" Connor's LED cycles a tentative blue as they enter the archives room, Hank trailing behind by a few paces, discomforted by the realization that for once since the android's arrival, he knows infinitely more about a case than Connor... and Niles likely knows more than them both combined.

For fuck's sake, Hank is the only one who was even an official employee in that equation.

"Yes, Detective Reed and Officer Chen were involved in a firefight yesterday, while serving an arrest warrant." 

Niles steps to the side for Hank to enter his password into the terminal. The feeling niggling in the back of his throat rises: it's the moment the lid rattles before it boils over, but by then, it's already too late.

"In your absence, Lieutenant Anderson and I provided support," Niles starts evenly, the back wall of the archive opening in front of the trio, pieces of evidence coming into view as its panels emerge. Niles didn't hesitate to approach it, "The suspect was unfortunately terminated, but an investigation will need to be concluded regardless. I and Detective Reed have completed the majority of the report already, but I would like you to confirm my thoughts on a matter, Connor."

Hank notes that he isn't personally being asked to examine the evidence. He'd expected as much, that it would be less of an affront as it was awkward as fuck, but now that he's here, he realizes one-half of what had made him want to call the whole thing off: he isn't here to analyze evidence, Niles wanted him here to watch—

"The suspect was under the effects of Red Ice..." Connor says distantly, eyes looking as if he's staring into the distance, flicking over the items on the wall: from the suspect's clothes to a blood sample, and the pistol he'd injured both Tina and Gavin with, holograms of the crime-scene, a log of officer injuries... including Hank's nebulous _right hand, knuckle abrasions,_ and various other miscellanies. 

He's no doubt constructing something in that head of his, but the lieutenant can't help but wonder what he's missing in the things that _didn't_ show up in evidence: the howling maw of the iced-out perp up in his face, the rush of Hank's adrenaline when his fist connected, the drip of a sickly, bright red, down his shirt, matching the red of the back of Hank's eyelids when he'd closed his eyes later, trying to forget.

"I suppose it makes sense, given he had a prior conviction of using," Connor comments factually, "Did he behave erratically? You said there was a firefight."

"Yes, I surmise it ultimately led him to commit the actions that caused his demise."

"I don't see anything out of order, but he can't be charged posthumously... so I suppose it doesn't matter so long as he acted alone," Connor's lips press into a line, "It's... unfortunate he can't be held responsible for his crimes, but it seems he left no room for negotiation."

"It was likely an unavoidable outcome, when considering his previous record," Niles affirms, eyes half-lidded where he watches Connor look over the evidence, "However, that is not what I wanted to ask of you, Connor."

Niles pushes up one of his dark sleeves to expose his pale wrist and extends his hand toward Connor, such a simple movement immediately sending a chill up Hank's spine, and while he knew what that meant in _practice_ by this point, he's clueless as to where it's _going_.

But it feels bad. It feels wrong. Hank has a hunch, so _clueless_ had been a lie to himself— inexplicably, his inkling of the truth made him feel the urge to do one of two things: to push Niles hand way, or to grab the one Connor now extends, his face unreadable, LED cycling blue.

Connor takes Niles's hand, and his body immediately stiffens as if struck by a current of electricity— but it isn't the same as when Hank had seen them interface before: while Nile's stance is as firm and unyielding as ever, his eyes now focused on Connor's with an intensity that had been absent even in the midst of their firefight the day previous.

The white-blue peeling over their joined hands and up their wrists is less of the brief flicker Hank had witnessed previously, and more in the way bark might burn from firewood; blue in its intensity, but slow as it separated layer-by-layer, burning into nothing but white ash, the shiny surface of their base existence showing through. It extends much farther up Connor's wrist than Niles's, disappearing under his jacket sleeve in the same moment Connor rips his hand away with a jerky step back, his LED flashing red at the point of separation before stalling solid yellow.

"Well?" Niles lowers his hand, impassive, "What do you think?"

Connor's wide eyes and stiff stance raise blaring alarm bells in the abused sanctum of Hank's chest, but before he can so much as interject, Connor is staggering forward to snatch Niles's wrist back, a bright white shooting up where they interface.

This time, it's Niles who finally takes a step back, pulling his hand away as if insulted, a frown dragging at his mouth.

" _I think_ ," he says at length, his eyes narrowing, "I am disappointed, Connor."

"So am I, Niles," Connor affect is now blank, his LED calm blue even as he stalks past Hank and to the bulletproof glass double doors, where he calls over his shoulder without looking, "Hank."

Hank follows, left with no other recourse, save staying in the archives with Niles— yeah, right. Connor's footsteps ring hard against the polished flooring ahead of him, enough so that Hank catches up with him, grabbing his upper arm to stop him just short of opening the reinforced door.

"Well, that was just lovely," The sarcasm in Hank's voice bites too hard, but he doesn't bother to rein it in just yet, "Mind explaining what the hell just happened, Connor?"

Connor could pull away but he doesn't, looking him right in the eye, his tone almost chiding.

"You neglected to mention you were nearly killed, Hank."

"Not the first time, won't be the last."

"You should have stayed in the car. Niles could have taken care of it on his own."

"Bullshit, he could have— Are you forgetting this is my fuckin' job?" Hank's grip tightens as he presses, crowding Connor against the door, "Did you seriously think I was just going to leave Chen and Reed to, what, die?"

" _You_ could have died, lieutenant." The corners of Connor's eyes twitch, his brows rapidly jerking inward into a displeased line, his eyes darting back and forth across the floor like he was searching for something to say.

It comes out as if he's saying it to himself, a huff of breath, disappointment,"And for what? A thirty-seven-point-six-seven statistical difference in probability of success...?"

It becomes clear that Hank isn't who Connor is truly upset with— it's Niles. Of course, it's Niles.

The realization puts a strange, tight feeling in the pit of Hank's stomach. He lets go of Connor's arm, yanking open the archives door himself, "Yeah, well— something must have gotten a little lost in translation when Markus did his Deviant-shit, but if you haven't noticed, I'm still here and kickin'."

"Markus didn't turn Niles Deviant," Connor follows alongside Hank, past the detainee cells, "I did."

Hank sucks in a breath, stopping and turning toward him, unsure if he's facing sass or—deflection, again, "Well, you _fucked_ _up_ , Connor."

Connor doesn't seem bothered by the accusation. It might have been ironic if Hank didn't feel like he needed to physically strike something to regain some semblance of control over the past few days in the abstract, and RK models kept finding ways to put themselves into the running as those _somethings_ , purposefully or not.

"Lieutenant," Connor starts, then stops. Starts again, "Hank, may I speak with you alone? It will only take a moment."

Hank glances around the hall. It's mostly empty, save for a few officers conversing at the opposite end. He lets out the breath, tests the press of his nails against the inside of his palm.

"Somethin' you can't say to me right here, Connor?"

"I promise I'll be finished after this, Hank."

It's hard to say no to Connor when he manages to look so goddamn sincere.

"Fine. You've got ten minutes," Hank opens the closest door to them, leading into the interrogation observation nook, "—then I'm going postal."

"While I was away, I realized something." Connor starts after a moment of silence in the dimly-lit room, "I'll have to check my theory against the database to be certain, but..."

"There _is_ something that connects the deviant crimes we've investigated— at least, I believe there is when it comes to android-instigated or accelerated crimes."

It isn't what Hank had been expecting to _take only a moment_ , that's for sure.

"You're kidding me," Hank leans against the glass, arms crossed.

"No, I think— I'm not certain, but I believe the participants have all been androids who were made Deviant beyond what you might consider a 'natural' progression."

"English, Connor."

"Androids who had their protocol overridden by outside parties."

"So, androids Markus freed," Hank discerns, but it isn't necessarily in agreement, "Do you realize what you're saying here, Connor?"

"It isn't— I don't believe it's necessarily a _compulsion_ , and it could be entirely unrelated, but I think it's something worth looking into— quietly."

No shit. If the press got a whiff of even the suggestion that android Deviation, especially in reference to _Markus_ had been directly linked to the rise in crimes, instead of as a natural byproduct, the potential fallout could be disastrous, true or not.

"You said you, uh—  _turned_  Niles," Hank shifts from foot to foot, "Did you ask him what he thought about this? Is that what _that_ was?"

"No," Connor says immediately, voice even, "I don't think it's that simple, lieutenant."

"Oh, yeah? You think?" Hank pushes off the wall, jabbing a finger into the center Connor's chest, over his tie-clip, "I'm getting kinda tired of you guys yanking me around with this shit, Connor— you do remember your twin back there is a fuckin' Fed, right?"

"Niles wouldn't make such a negatively biased accusation, but I hope I can trust you to keep my conjecture to yourself, all the same."

"Like _I'm_ going to be the one to drop that bomb," He huffs, voice rough, "Shit, Perkins would have a fuckin' field day."

"I...appreciate it, Hank."

"Yeah, whatever," Hank dismisses, the angry wind that had propelled him punctured, "Where do you wanna start on this mess? The database?"

"Yes— I'd like to examine all crimes with android involvement prior to the March and compare them to your files following it. We can decide where to go from there." 

Hank sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It's a lot of cases to go through, even for an android, and with Niles at the station observing their performance within the unit, it would likely become an even bigger pain in the ass while they still had new cases coming in almost every day. 

At the same time, though, he can't say it surprises him that it would eventually circle back to this. It'd all started with Perkin's inquiry, Hank's late-nights and miserable hours combing over cases to find some shred of similarity, only to come up empty-handed... but here they are— and here is _Connor_.

Connor, who would take the shot— but turn his cheek in the same instant. Connor, whom it evidently wasn't just a _task_ to, or else Hank is completely certain the android would have involved Niles immediately if the other was supposed to have been intended as his so-called successor. But maybe that had something to do with it, too. For all Hank had observed Connor to follow decorum, the past few days had raised more questions than he was willing to sit on.

Regardless, Connor is waiting for an answer, even if Hank didn't have any.

"I need some grub if we're gonna do this," Hank finally concedes, "and a couple drinks— and don't tell me _no,_ " He adds with an obscene gesture, sensing Connor about to go on some well-meaning _maybe you shouldn't be day-drinking at your job_ -stint.

 

To his surprise, Hank thinks the line of Connor's shoulders beneath his jacket may look more relaxed by way of the taunt, his mouth twitching up at the corners.

"...I suppose you've left me with no choice, Hank."

 

\---

 

Hank doesn't check his phone until long after he's home in the evening. He might have left it unopened the whole night, if it hadn't buzzed loudly against his coffee table next to his beer, rattling the cold edge of the glass bottle with its insistent little vibration notification. There's an email from the morning— before all of _that_ with Niles and Connor— and something from some ten or so minutes previous, when he'd been in the shower. Everything else is spam.

The things that weren't spam were still highly questionable.

He thumbs the older email open as he sinks into the couch, bare skin warmed from the hot water, still a little damp where a towel hangs around his neck.

> _> > [YP.tv:] _
> 
> _Post: Q &A Stream_
> 
> _by: Coin_Trick_
> 
> Hello, everyone,
> 
> I want to thank you for allowing my previous broadcast to be such a success! Though I enjoyed myself thoroughly, I did notice several comments and questions that I was admittedly too distracted to address at the time of— you can likely ascertain why. (:
> 
> Because of the aforementioned details, however, I've decided that tonight's broadcast will be a 'Q & A', of sorts. You can ask me anything. I'll do my best to answer what I'm comfortable with divulging.
> 
> I'll also have a special announcement at the end of the broadcast. See you then.

The second email is predictably a notification that Coin-Trick had gone live, the timestamp reading some dozen minutes previous. Hank's hand hesitates over where his laptop was set on the coffee table, but it's brief: the kind of second-thought you got in the back of your head after you've already committed to the first bite of a too-rich dessert.

The stream cuts in mid-answer:

"Pizza isn't a part of my diet, so I can't say I have a preference for with or without that topping."

The camera is angled the way a laptop webcam from Hank's youth might have been— close enough to show where Coin-trick is sitting at the edge of his bed, his dark slacks tight around his hips where his legs are partway spread, palms on his knees, but low enough to where it cuts off a view of his face or much of the surrounding room.

Coin-trick pauses as several more questions pop up in the donations-bar, humming. Idly, Hank wonders— if Coin-trick has noticed he's there. If it even shows up on his radar of awareness. If it even matters.

> _ sfl233_99: moneyshot plz _
> 
> _ kummiez582: fuck me? _
> 
> _ fant4stiche: Socks on or off? _

"..I don't need to wear socks, so I don't have a preference...," the chat streams by Hank's eyes, the blue light of the laptop screen bright in the dark of his living room, "If you mean on my partner, I suppose I would want whatever makes them most comfortable."

Hank reaches for his beer, turning to lay down on the couch, setting his laptop on his stomach.

> _ kummiez582: fuck me...plz? _
> 
> _ lobsterd0ng89: say daddy please _
> 
> _ io3598fhs: whys ur name cointrick _

"Oh...," Coin-trick murmurs, reaching out of view to grab something, and when his hand returns he's holding a silver coin between two fingers, which he starts to gently flip from knuckle to knuckle, "This is why."

The coin catches the light as it turns, moving over one slim finger to the next, and Hank's eyes follow it as it moves until Coin-trick flicks it effortlessly from one hand to the other, catching it in his cupped hand. There's a small yank of a smile across his lips when his mouth comes into view as he puts the coin onto the table, beneath the camera.

"I'm afraid it's nothing special." 

_Oh, you cheeky sonofabitch,_ Hank thinks in response to the closer look at the column of his neck when he looms closer, the way his collarbones tucked down into his open shirt, draped over his narrow torso, the shadow falling over the subtle curve of his pec. Hank licks his lips, finishing off his beer.

The questions start to get dirty, and fast. It's what Hank expected, given it was a _porn_ website— and though he wouldn't say it's the _only_ reason he'd decided to watch, it was a, let's say highly motivating factor.  

> _ rile666: wats your sweet spot baby? _

"My...," Coin-trick pauses, and Hank snorts in the darkness of his living room, "Ah, you must mean an erogenous zone. Let me think of one..."

Suddenly, he's leaning forward, pulling the camera down with him toward the bed, so he could sprawl out onto it. The change in positioning catches Hank off guard— he swallows when Coin-trick brings his fingers to the bottom of his dress shirt and up, dragging over the material before he's pressing down against the spot the shirt is partially unbuttoned, fingertip parting the narrow space where the fabric folds over to the next button.

"Here," He murmurs, running the pad of his finger in a slow circle over the skin he'd revealed, just below his sternum. Hank likes to imagine Coin-trick arched his back just a little into the touch, but the moment is so brief he isn't sure if it were the truth or just the lewd cravings of an old man.

The donation bar keeps dinging. Hank doesn't bother looking, anymore— what he wants to see is right there on the broadcast window, his shirt open over the top half of his chest, still brushing a loose circle over that _spot._ When he shifts in place, his mouth comes barely into view at the top of the window, lips parted. 

> _ appei_000: what's your type? marry me _
> 
> _ j_o_chrys: fav position n why? _

"My 'type' and my favorite sexual position? Hm..." Coin-trick sounds a little distracted, but not unpleasantly so, "I can answer these together if you don't mind. 

"It's hard to say, but I think... someone bigger than I am," Both of his hands drift up his chest to press just below his collarbone, and his lips part again when he pushes the heels of his palms down, sinking just a little into the bedding. Hank feels his stomach lurch with arousal and worries his lip between his teeth, "...Yes, that's ideal. I imagine I'd find the feeling of their weight on top of me to be quite... effective."

"And, any position where I could see their face sounds most pleasurable. Although," Coin-trick's mouth quirks into the slightest smirk, "I don't mind doing otherwise if it's what makes them feel good."

"Oh, and I apologize, but I can't do the other thing you mentioned."

Another ding— but Hank manages to catch what this one says before Coin-trick can read it aloud.

> _ tracexxxy: show feet _

His feelings are... mixed.

"' _Show feet_ '...?" Coin-trick hums, "I'm not sure why you would want to see them, they're fairly normal, I think...?"

Coin-trick folds one of his legs at the knees, pulling his foot into view and giving his bare toes a little wiggle. Hank frowns. Someone is _definitely_ getting off on this, and maybe that's the point, but it's crossing into a territory where he had not expected to tread. 

It's enough to get him to break his silence and submit a question of his own if only to change the subject. (Well, and maybe he's been curious about the answer for a while, gnawing in the back of his mind, reworded in a way he won't acknowledge outright.)

> _ twinkluver1985: why do you cam? _

"Ah," Coin-trick says, and a moment later Hank is watching his own message pop up on the monitor, drawing a shallow breath in the silent interim. He smiles, the gesture small and simple, "I'm afraid that's a secret, Twink-Lover-Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

It makes sense— it isn't something he's entitled to know, after all. Hank doesn't know why he asked. It was a stupid question. It had served its purpose, maybe.

He completely misses whatever Coin-trick said next— must have been a problem with the volume, or his connection.

"Hmm... you all seemed to like that one. I'm glad. I have time for one more."

A flurry of small donations pours in, most of them trying to one-up the other in terms of crudeness or requests. Hank is about to read them for the subtly unvirtuous thrill of it when his phone buzzes from his TV stand once again, this time rattling the empty bottle he'd finished off earlier.

It's Connor. Hank glances between his laptop and his phone, not wanting to miss the end of the stream, but also...

"'I'd like to ask you something, but...I'm not sure if you'll answer,'" Coin-trick reads from his peripheral as Hank skims the text on his phone, brows furrowing together.

> Connor : Lieutenant, I'm sorry to interrupt your evening. May I ask you a personal question?
> 
> Hank : What is it

"Go ahead and ask," Coin-trick says softly, "I'll do my best to answer."

Hank's phone buzzes again. His eyes flick back and forth to the broadcast and his phone, having to re-read Connor's message twice.

> Connor : Do you think it's enough for androids to be free?
> 
> Hank: What

"Oh— and as for the surprise I mentioned in my announcement..." Coin-trick sits up, moving the camera back to its stationary position, keeping it steady so as to not reveal the face Hank knows so well on someone else, some _where_ else. "I'll be opening a slot for another private session shortly. It's for some time in the future— one month, to be exact."

> Connor : Allow me to rephrase.

The donation sound dings. Hank looks up, his phone going slack in his hand. The question reads, ' _Are you an android?',_ the messaging sitting timidly in the banner, the username a jumble of letters and numbers that Hank can't make sense of. The tight feeling from that morning creeps up in his chest, of knowing too many options that existed but were out of his control. 

Ways Coin-trick might answer, and why. Reasons for Connor's texts. Niles's presence, nearly the spitting image of both of them.

"'Am I an android'?"

He pauses.

"Yes, I am." 

Coin-trick reaches for the camera now, a brief smile passing his lips.

"Good night, everyone."

The screen goes black, bathing Hank in an imageless blue light, save for the small white text that read _OFFLINE._ The chat beside the now-black viewing window goes by quickly, but Hank doesn't read it. 

His phone buzzes, its white screen feeling painfully bright by comparison when he lifts it to his face, the black-on-white lacking in the inflection from the steam.

> Connor : You told me once that sometimes, being free to live according to your own choosing wasn't enough. 

Hank's laptop screen refreshes, and a new message appears.

> _[ >>_ _[YP.tv:]_
> 
> _ Notification: Private Session Available _
> 
> _ by: Coin_Trick _
> 
> _ One (1) private session is now available.  _
> 
> _Purchase?_ ]

His phone buzzes again.

> Connor : Do you still feel that way, Hank?

He wets his lips and breathes in—

> _ [ >>Purchase _
> 
> _. _
> 
> _. _
> 
> _. _
> 
> _ You have successfully purchased "Private Session" from user Coin_Trick. ] _

_ — _ And breathes out.

> Hank : Yeah
> 
> Hank : I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry hank
> 
> hmu on twitter: @rk69420
> 
> also please look at Apple's WMWY fanart...! https://twitter.com/rk69420/status/1051003169008840704


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (heads up i changed nines' name to niles, so you're not trippin if he's suddenly being called something else. sorry for any confusion!)

"—Good afternoon, Detroit. If you're just tuning in, I have with me Helena LaMar, a representative here on behalf of Michigan Governor Lauren Arbacker. Now, before the break, you said Governor Arbacker considers the state to be in a transitional period unlike anything we've ever seen before. Namely, you must mean the," She gestures, "advent of the recognition of Androids as individuals, of which Detroit, Michigan is certainly the center of the whole movement, so to speak."

"Yes, that's right, Katie."

"Does Governor Arbacker consider this to be a positive transition— should we be alarmed by this transition? After all, there have been multiple acts of android violence perpetrated before, during, and after the so-called  _ Android Revolution _ ."

"Well, Katie, about what you said..."

Hank shuffles across the floor of his kitchen, already on his second cup of coffee. His stomach grumbles loud enough for him to hear it over the TV in the other room— his cupboards aren't empty, necessarily, but they're lacking in anything he feels like eating, let alone cooking. Coffee will do until his 'lunch' break or some drive-thru on the way, a long-established habit he isn't about to break now… one of many.

Even if there were a few interruptions here and there.

Sumo grumbles to go out, and so Hank abides. He focuses on tuning out the static in his ears and the weight on his eyelids, forcing his thoughts to wane into his practiced routine of careful mental shallowness. So long as whatever vapid thing he’s filled his brain with is distracting enough, the minutiae doesn't matter— for example, that his home is empty. The telltale whir of an e-car buzzes by beyond his back fence, along with children shouting in the distance, somewhere down the road. A bird chirps somewhere, though he doubts it will visit, the feeder in his backyard has hung empty for years.

Hank chooses to focus instead on the feel of cold, stiffened grass crunching under his worn flip-flops, the low whine from Sumo as he deliberates on which bush he wants to piss on, the dampened sounds of the TV from inside the house, of which Hank takes comfort in its unintelligibility especially.

When he comes back in, the channel has unfortunately shifted to another segment. It’s one he can’t find comfort in.

"Locals are shocked by the verdict of David Brenner, ruled guilty this morning of murdering his nine year old son, Avery Brenner, in what is being declared a crime of passion. Mr Brenner, a Detroit-native and recent divorcee, broke down into tears when the sentencing was read at the Central Courthouse this morning."

The TV suddenly feels a lot louder, like the rush of a bathtub funneling in after you dunk your head underwater, both muffled and suffocating at once. Hank sets his coffee cup down on the counter without looking, the clink of ceramic to the faux tile unintentionally sharp, though ignored.

"Several Android activists were present in the audience to show support for the unnamed android whom Mr Brenner is also being tried for the deactivation of. Mr Brenner had previously attempted to blame the unnamed android for the death of his son, until Detroit PD detectives linked physical evidence found at the scene of the crime to the father."

The shot changes, showing several angles of first responders and the like— Hank spots Officer Person speaking to blurred witnesses, Gavin peering into some corner of a house, and then—

The broadcast abruptly shows a photo of a small, red-headed boy with freckles that smatter his dimpled cheeks like so many stars. He's smiling wide, unashamed of his chipped front-tooth or the bandaid crinkling the corner of his eyes, obviously about to fall off but completely irrelevant to his exuberant attitude. The plastic head of a toy robot pokes into view at the bottom of the photo, held possessively close.

"Avery Brenner will be remembered as a loving boy with many friends. A service is being held at—"

Hank shuts it off, seeing only the reflection of his scowl in the dark screen. The silence of the television should be a comforting escape, but it’s only skin deep.

 

\---

 

The TV is on in the break room at Central Station.

Hank tries to ignore it, waiting for another cup of coffee, but it's loud— or at least it feels like it, with the way it occupies his mind, making it harder and harder to tune it out the more sour he feels.

"Detroit PD have flown increasingly above the radar after the formation of the Android Crimes Task Force, headed by Lieutenant Hank Anderson. Officials have even gone as far as enlisting the expertise of individuals close to the influential activist leader Markus Manfred, namely the law enforcement android shown here, known as Connor—now on a  _ voluntary _ basis."

Hank looks up at the mention of Connor's name— his mouth goes dry.

The scene shown is of Hank and Niles, at the Ensley residence. The android doesn't acknowledge the reporters as he trails Hank's figure receding into the distance, the side of his face the near spitting image of the one he'd been confused for, something that spurs a hint of contempt in his chest.

"Could this partnership be what Detroit needs? What do you think?" The pretty, blonde newscaster regards her co-host, a handsome brown-haired man with perfect enamel teeth. Hank rips his eyes away from the screen as a huff of nasally laughter erupts from his peripheral. 

"See the news, old man?" Gavin sneers, crossing to the standing table Tina Chen is currently leaned against, blowing on a cup of tea, "They say the camera adds ten pounds, but I'm thinkin' it's more like... twenty, huh?"

Tina rolls her eyes. Hank ignores it, yanking the coffee carafe off its stand with a jerk, the dark liquid sloshing around and fogging up the glass.

"Hey, you should be happy," Gavin continues with another laugh, all bluster, "Your tincan got some airtime, huh?  _ 'Connor' _ ."

Hank turns toward him, jaw set, then looks at the entranceway, which is currently empty.

"Tell you what, Reed— why don't you call him that to his  _ face _ ," Hank gestures with the tiny paper cup in his hand, mimicking Gavin's voice, though three times more nasal, " _ Huh _ ?"

Gavin's face screws up at the crude imitation and he makes an aborted movement like he was about to look, but he doesn't quite rise to the bait. Hank gives it partial credit, at most.

"Hey, it's the Feds," Tina suddenly jabs Gavin with her elbow, raising a brow, "Your favourite one."

Evidently what he sees this time is convincing, because Gavin goes pale, immediately cursing under his breath and heading out through the opposite door with a fast but exceedingly stiff gait— just as Niles walks in through the first, his imposing figure now unmistakable. 

_ Well, shit. _ Hank had been vamping, but he isn't going to complain— mainly because Tina points in the direction Gavin has just headed, which Niles immediately sets out on, throwing not so much as a glance at Hank. 

It's a blessing in disguise— Hank wants nothing to do with that fucking android after the confrontation in the Evidence Archives. It's the reason he'd skipped the bullpen first thing whenever he could over the past couple days, and for the most part, it has worked— Niles didn't seem interested in interacting more than was strictly necessary with Hank, but Connor, on the other hand...

He'd caught Niles staring at Connor more than once, his expression completely unreadable. 

Connor's words from that day came back to mind:  _ I don't think it's that simple, Lieutenant _ — it had been more than indicative of how their low-key investigation would progress in the following days, because Hank has felt more or less useless. There'd been no point in him going over the information he'd already shifted through several times over, especially with Connor's superior processors having analyzed them, so he's been focusing almost solely on current cases, with the occasional comment on something Connor showed him upon request, or the other way around.

It's tedious work, honestly, because it's more of the usual— the new usual, that is. Even with the terms switched around, the content hadn’t changed much: missing property became missing persons, and nothing is ever quick and easy and rarely pretty, not like the Einsley case.

Connor has seemed increasingly distracted, too. Of course, distracted for  _ Connor _ meant he was still working at thrice the speed of any human officer at the precinct as far as Hank could tell, but it revealed itself in little ways: taking a second longer to reply to something Hank said, flicking his coin over the rise of his knuckles increasingly frequently, even when the lieutenant pointed out that it was driving him fucking insane.

The previous day, he'd even forgotten to berate Hank for ordering a double instead of a single hamburger.

A jingle plays on the TV as the news segment changes, now showing the de facto android leader Markus. He’s shaking hands with a small group of suited individuals, a pale blonde android at his side, polite smiles all around. The banner scrolling along the bottom of the television reads  _ CyberLife representatives in talks with US and Russian Presidents over Android Crisis. _

Hank bites the inside of his lip, closing his eyes and trying to focus on the warmth seeping through the paper cup in his hand.  _ Chill, Hank. One thing at a time. _

"Good afternoon, Lieutenant."

His eyes snap open, and he turns to find Connor standing next to him, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes on the TV broadcast, "I see you've decided to join us."

"Yeah, well, y'know," Hank scowls, running a hand over the unruly stubble creeping up his cheeks, "Beauty sleep, and all that."

It isn't by chance that he neglects to mention he'd been up until three-AM with a handle of whiskey the previous night, strolling down the broken-cobbled path of Memory Lane...but it must be by  _ choice _ that Connor chooses then to smirk, because he's an android, and androids didn't smirk without knowing they were doing it, right?

It's a small, simple thing. A mere turn of one side of his mouth that changes his entire expression. It fits him.

"...I don't," Connor admits, just a little sly, tucking his chin toward his chest with a shrug, "But regardless, we've had a case come up— two, in fact."

Hank's face screws up. He takes a sip of his coffee before remembering it's scalding hot, and so his face screws up even more, "You seem pleased,” He sputters with dread, “too pleased."

"Don't worry— I think you'll find one of them enjoyable."

"But we're not starting with that one," Hank guesses, deadpan.

"Unfortunately not," Connor shrugs, "The first is a murder."

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

 

\---

 

By the time they make it through downtown Ferndale's traffic to the crime scene, a light rain has started to fall. The condensation makes the air feel wet and heavy as Hank hauls himself out of his car, sucking in a breath. The city's smog hangs low and casts an even darker shade to the afternoon sky, the haze making it feel even later than it actually is, even for Hank's fucked up biological clock, which Connor points out, only to be shot down just as quickly.

Not that it really matters. The time and weather doesn't mean a lick to a murder, only to the details left behind— of which there are many, according to the brief Connor had given him on the drive over. It's what appears to be a double-homicide: one android, one human.

"It's on the fifth floor," Connor straightens his tie, showing no reaction to the rain that has started to dot his cheeks and stick in little standing rain drops to the shoulders of his jacket, "they've already secured the rest of the unit."

Hank blinks through the light rainfall, squinting upward at the condominium. The bright white lights visible through one of the upper-unit's broad windows even in gloomy daylight signals where they're going before Connor even speaks again, now standing at his side.

"I've been informed the scene is quite...gruesome," He comments, and if it's meant to be for Hank's benefit, neither of them pursue it. They make their way through the expensive-looking lobby, tracking flecks of water over the high-shine, marble finish floors, past two police officers and into an elevator leading to the higher levels. They don’t need to speak, there’s nothing to say. Connor flips that damned quarter a couple times before the elevator dings, leading them to the crime scene.

Gruesome turns out to be a surprisingly sterile description, in Hank's humble opinion.

_ Violent _ epitomizes it better— the condo is a fucking mess, in a total state of disarray from the doorway all the way through the apartment; there isn't one thing visible from where they stand that hasn't been upended. Beneath the harsh portable fluorescent lights the investigators had set up to analyze the scene before their arrival, it almost looks like some bizarre art exhibit Hank wouldn't care enough to wrap his head around— not someone's life in tatters. Every shadow illuminated, secrets laid bare, if they could only grasp them.

"Jesus," Hank exhales, brows shooting up as he takes in the scene. The physical and atmospheric stench of death may be something he's used to, but that never changed what it was— death.

There's blood everywhere, which explains the  _ gruesome _ description, first and foremost: both red and blue are thrown about, matching the two lifeless bodies on the condo's living-room floor. One is sprawled across the polished tile, her previously white shirt now stained in the darkened brown-red she's also collapsed in, the other slumped onto her knees, body rigid and clothing smattered in a thinning dark blue.

"Aroline Harris, twenty-nine years old," Connor addresses the first body, before tilting his face toward the other, "and Manuela, a WR400 model— you may know them as a 'Traci,' Lieutenant."

"Huh," Hank murmurs, moving into the crime scene, careful not to step in either bodies' fluids, starting to attempt to visualize a narrative based on the details he spots. That brings him back to the  _ violent _ .

"What happened to her head?"

The fallen android's cranium is cracked open starting at the temporal area, revealing a series of ports and other hardware Hank doesn't care to know the names of. Several cords hang out of the jagged space unevenly, shiny and unnatural as if it were a technological maw.

"I don't know yet," Connor circles the body slowly, his eyes flicking over her corpse, "It wasn't her cause of death, though. She died before her cranial cavity was opened."

"Huh," Hank spots a biocomponent he recognizes some ways away on the floor, drawn to it by the small splatter of semi-transparent Thirium coating it. It’s semicircular, almost like a cork, "'...She bleed out?"

"In a way— Without her Thirium pump regulator, Thirium flooded her chest cavity until vital processors were rendered inoperable."

That didn't sound fast. Hank grimaces, rolling his sore shoulders and continuing to look around the room.

"Can you revive her?"

"...No, the trauma it causes its subservient components is too great."

Hank sucks in a breath, "What a way to go... with the other one, though, it's pretty fuckin' obvious."

The human woman, Aroline, has a kitchen knife plunged into her chest. One of her hands lay stiffly beside it, likely holding onto its handle before she succumbed to shock.

"Stabbed twice— the second pierced her heart," Connor nods, "Unlike Manuela, she died very quickly, once the final blow was rendered."

"Did Aroline own her?" Hank waves a hand at the aforementioned android’s body, grimacing, "You know— before."

Connor hums, looking around the room slowly, "Not that any records show. However, she did previously own a different android; A JB300 model, designation: Adeline."

"Hm..."

"There was a fight," Connor's voice is soft, semi-distracted, one hand outreached to point to the kitchen, "It started here..."

"—And ended with her stabbing Aroline," Hank finishes, clicking his tongue and noting the path of destruction and how items had fallen, as if knocked into from the direction of the kitchen, most notably ending up in the vicinity of the removed Thirium Pump Regulator, "She did that instead of trying to save herself first?"

"Apparently it was more important than her life," Connor's brows crinkle inward slightly, "In that moment, at least."

"Well, shit," Hank shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, looking around, "Still doesn't explain the junk with her head, though."

They both silently search the crime scene, working around each other with only a few comments here and there. Hank doesn't find much illuminating— which isn't unusual for these kinds of crime scenes on the first pass, either— other than a knocked-over stack of pamphlets in the bedroom detailing different female android models for sale. The ads must be a few months old, and range from low to high-end models, all with dark, long hair. A few are ripped up. 

He's picking up several large, torn up pieces of what looks like a specific model and jamming them together when Connor suddenly stops mid-step beside him, his shoulders stiffening. It's a small tell, all things considered, but Hank notices it immediately, jerking his chin in the android's direction.

They're close. Connor meets his eyes, his cheek twitching up in place for a second— before his vision goes hazy, like he's looking through Hank, at something he can't see.

"I have a theory...," He says slowly, lightly, distant gaze panning across the room, "but I don't think you'll like it very much, Lieutenant."

Hank looks at where Connor’s eyes are directing: it takes him longer than he'd admit, but finally he notices several stray dots of blue flecked up the wall, almost blending in with the eggshell finish. Connor looks down, so Hank does, too, at where the plush neutral carpet is pushed back just slightly where it should meet the wall, like it had been pushed, and hard. Above it is the heater vent.

Hank looks down at the crumpled pieces of paper in his hands. Pieced together, the android model's name reads...  _ Adeline _ . He grimaces.

"...You saying that now is gonna make me like it even less, Connor," he warns.

"Someone was trying to forcibly interface with Manuela's fragmenting mind palace using the cables in the other room," Connor's eyes pan back to Hank, who snorts, "And given the timeline of her death, that her Thirium is still at its mammalian visibility..."

"Yeah, you're right," Hank looks around the room to scope out its exits without turning his head, "...I hate it."

"I know," Connor's expression softens, glancing back at the Lieutenant to smile faintly, "Sorry, Hank."

It's quiet, then. The two of them looking at each other, Hank watching the way the smile slips from Connor's face and his eyes narrow just enough, his LED cycling blue, then yellow. Connor jerks his jaw toward the vent subtly— Hank nods, spreading his stance out, ready to move.

"They're still here, right?"

—Is what Hank says, but the tail end of it is deafened by the slam of the vent cover pushing off the wall, the android body that had been folded up behind it surging into the room and toward the exit in a mad scramble. Connor has already moved to block the doorway, arms at his sides and expression concentrated, and Hank starts after the long-haired android, trying to grab her from behind.

The moment Hank's hands touch the back of her arms, she screams, throwing herself back against him, flailing. Connor's eyes widen just barely within Hank's focus, right as one of the android's elbows jabs him in the solar plexus— hard. 

Except, she's an android, so it does more than wind Hank. He stumbles back with a tight sound, clutching his chest, coughing. The android spins around, her hair wild around her, arms outstretched to push at him, fingers tangling in his clothing, the severity of it popping one of the buttons of his striped shirt right off.

Hank can tell it's a diversion— she could have easily gone for his eyes. In the second she pushes at him, he can see her own contorted in fear, not anger.

"Hank!" Connor says, taking a step forward, LED yellow. Hank thrusts out a hand, voice rough.

"'M fine, don't let her—" But, the android is already surging into the small space made between the doorframe and Connor, just as Hank teeters forward. A strong hand grips his shirt, keeping him standing, and Hank catches himself on Connor’s shoulder, exhaling shakily. Connor meets his eyes again, his own wide and round, and then lets go.

... To sprint out of the room, after the android.

"Don't you fuckin'—"

Hank starts after him, one hand at his chest where he'd been socked, and makes it into the long hallway the apartment is midway through just in time to see Connor tearing down the opposite end, into the stairwell, shouting without looking.

"It's Adeline!"

"No shit!" He shouts back, already running down the hall after the two, their footsteps ringing hard from above, getting farther away. Two floors above is the roof. Hank bursts through the open door at the top, refusing to slow down— not this time, he isn't going to leave Connor to whatever the hell is going to happen on his own, he isn't going to fuck it up, like with Jakob, either.

Connor and the android— Adeline— are at the edge of the roof, Connor's imposing figure advancing on the smaller female android's, her pale dress, now stained with grime, slowly starting to stick to her body beneath the quickening rain. He comes upon them just as she scrambles across some construction rafters, to the adjoining unit over.

"DPD! Stop! We know you didn't do it!" Connor calls, instantly surging across the wooden bridge to the next building. There's no way Hank can make it, with the wind from the elevation and the rain— they'd be long gone by the time he made it over, even if he could.

"Connor!" Hank shouts, but his figure has already darted out of view toward the opposite building's stairs, after the android.

"Fuck!" He curses, already rushing back down the stairs, aiming to catch them halfway— trusting that Connor could keep her from throwing herself, or him, off the roof. He makes it to the outside of the next building's lobby, winded and panting, eyes wide in the now heavy rain, and searches everywhere he could for any sign of Connor. 

He spots his jacket, disappearing into the rushing crowd leading to the shopping center nearby. Hank sets off again, ripping his radio from his jacket to bark an update about their pursuit into it, forcing his body through the scurrying group of people to get through, and push on.

Downtown Ferndale is as abustle as it always is, but with the added rain, everyone is in an uneven rush, umbrellas or not. Hank's shirt starts to stick to his skin as he moves against the rainfall, almost knocking down someone when he surges in the direction of Connor after the android, moving down the street and toward the subway. The lack of apology doesn’t weigh on his conscience— but the thought of abandoning Connor does.

Hank curses, fingers slipping against the railing as he hops down the stairs into the subway after them, between a multitude of people hurriedly making their way up, Connor and Adeline already out of sight. There's only a few people still waiting around for the in-between stops, but their wary eyes are all turned toward one specific direction, so it's the one Hank makes a break for, rewarded in the barest sense of the word when he sees Connor advancing through a dispersing crowd on Adeline, who collides bodily with one of the train housings, her fingers scrabbling over its surface. Several easily spooked people shriek, and they run past him as he advances.

Hank can only watch in horror as her fingers gleam white for a second, the housing door she's leaning against slipping open. Her body scrambles through into the tracks. He knows what's going to happen next the moment she falls through, the telltale high whine of an incoming train filtering in, filling his mind to the brim, ringing in his ears and gathering tightly in his chest.

This time, Hank knows he's making the right decision.

He bursts forward toward Connor, grabbing his arm just as the android slams his hand on the door to open it. The door whizzes beneath the android's hand, revealing Adeline squishing to the wall and into a service space. In the same second, Connor tries to start forward, against Hank's weight— whose mind goes blank, the siren of the approaching train blaring through every space of his brain that isn't screaming  _ you idiot _ , and he's hauling Connor back, one hand wrapping around his chest from behind, his other still tight around Connor's wrist.

A second later, the train shoots by, dousing Hank's wet body with a gust of chilled air. The door hisses shut as Connor pulls his hand back, allowing the lieutenant to shove the smaller android's body against the side of the train enclosure, hands balled up in his sodden jacket.

"Connor!" Hank pants, completely out of breath, "'The  _ fuck _ are you doing?"

Connor's eyes meet his own before darting around out of place, visibly conflicted going by the solid yellow at his temple, his brows furrowing and lips set in a scowl, "She got away."

"So fuckin' let her!" Hank heaves, knuckles digging into his chest, "Didn't you say she was innocent?"

"But we don't know that for certain," He notes almost bitterly, "I could have caught her."

The petulance in Connor's voice makes something hot and tight seize up in Hank's ribcage. He wrenches Connor's jacket and shirt in his hands, lugging up him up until they're almost nose-to-nose.

"Bullshit," Hank grits, low and rough, "What kind of a fucking moron are you?"

Connor's eyes narrow at him, his LED cycling, "The chance of it hitting me fatally was only eight-point-five percent."

"Yeah, well it looks to me like you were about to be a fuckin' metal pancake."

"Statistically speaking," Connor stresses over Hank's voice, words clipped, "I would have been fine."

" _ Statistically speaking _ ," Hank stresses right back, finally letting go of Connor's clothing, stepping away, "ain't worth dying over,  _ shit _ ."

Hank thinks he might have seen Connor's LED flash red for a fraction of a second, but he turns his face away from the lieutenant before he can get a better look.

"If she has Manuela's memories and is acting this erratically it could be key to our ulterior investigation. What if she was converted to deviancy, Hank?"

"Seriously, Connor?" Hank glances around, noting that the few stragglers who had stayed in the train aisle had vacated the premises, leaving them alone— not that he could blame them, with two drenched cops running around after a disheveled, soaked android girl, "You think she's going to get far like that? Let someone  _ else _ pick her up, for fuck's sake."

Connor doesn't look convinced, still frowning. 

"Look— I already called her in," Hank rubs a hand across the scruff on his chin, fingertips feeling frozen, "Let someone else do their job, for once. Christ."

Now that he's not sprinting like his life depended on it, the wetness of his clothing and the winter air is catching up to him. He stifles a shudder with a grimace, sniffing to clear his stuffy nose. Connor notices the ensuing sniffle, because, of course he does.

"You should change out of those clothes, Hank, the current temperature could make you highly susceptible to hypothermia."

In the meantime, Connor moves to straighten his own clothing, which are just as soaked— the transparent white of his shirt sticking to his pseudo-skin in places, showing its cream flesh tone through the thin shirt. 

When his hands draw up to readjust his jacket at the nape, arms lifting, the movement reveals a hint of ruddy pink where the slick material is stuck against his narrow chest, rising over the visibly hard nub.

Hank looks away.

"I'm fine."

Hank is not fine, he's soaked and freezing his ass off next to Connor, who is just as soaked, but ten times more ridiculously attractive for it. What kind of sick pervert programs an android's skin to do that in the cold? It pisses him off, because he’s  _ already _ pissed off.

"You're not fine," Connor affirms clinically, "your body temperature is already resting at a level much lower than it should be, especially for your standard."

Hank rolls his eyes, "Yeah, what are you going to do about it? Be my electric blanket?"

"No, but we're not far from your home. You could change into something dry there. Should I call a car?"

"Look at you, so ready to take your sweet time," Hank looks back at Connor, jerking his head toward the next enclosure over, where a train is coming to a timely stop, "It's only a couple stops from here."

They both start for it, though Connor talks as they walk, "It would impede the investigation if you fell ill, Hank. A car would be faster."

"Fuck no," He gestures to himself, mainly to where his pants stick to his legs, and his shirt hangs awkwardly against his chest, one button missing from the scramble with Adeline earlier, sagging open for an inch, "I'm not sitting down like this— maybe you don't gotta worry about chafing, you fuckin' toothpick, but I do. Come on."

Connor sighs as they board the train, shoulders drooping in defeat. Hank can't take it as a win, though, too occupied trying not to violently shiver in the cold under the android's scrutinization.

 

\---

 

"You, uh...wanna borrow something?" Hank calls from his bedroom after a quick, blessedly hot shower, voice semi-muffled as he pulls a shirt over his head, "It's not gonna fit, but—"

"That's alright, Hank. The sun is out, now. My clothes will dry eventually."

"Missing the point, but whatever," He grumbles, returning to his kitchen, where Connor is sitting on a towel at his dining-room table, his jacket draped over the back of another chair, fingers buried behind Sumo's ears. Sumo looks very happy for it, his tail twapping loudly against the kitchen laminate.

Connor's hair sticks to his face where his unruly fringe had gotten soaked, and his jeans still look a shade darker than they actually are, laying tightly over the android's lean thighs. Hank shakes his head, crossing the room to check his phone for any updates— from the precinct, that is— finding none.

"Perhaps you should eat before we return to the station," Connor hums, rubbing the pads of his fingers over Sumo's nose, the dog looking doe-eyed at Connor's face, as if witnessing an astral entity, "Would you like me to make you something?"

"Nothin' to cook," Hank grunts, "I'll grab something later."

Connor frowns at him. Hank shrugs, grabbing Sumo's leash from the table, the long-learned sound making the dog jump to his feet with an excited  _ boof. _

"Listen— I'm gonna walk Sumo 'real quick, beat the rain. Then we can head back, wrap up whatever the hell happened at that house until what’s-her-name is wrangled."

"I'll accompany you," Connor stands, "Not that I'm being presented much of a choice."

Hank frowns, "...I'm not forcing you to walk my dog, Connor. Just thought since we've had so many all-nighters..."

Connor shakes his head, "Not by  _ you _ , Hank."

Hank catches his meaning when the rattle of Sumo's collar leads his eyes to where the dog is specifically nosing at Connor's pants and hands, raring to go.

"You shameless suck up," Hank nudges Sumo with his sock, who playfully tries to bite it, "Okay, okay, come on."

The air is still chilly outside, even if the sun had come out sometime after they'd arrived at Hank's house (of course), but this time, Hank is dry and bundled up in a thick jacket, the weather making the walk pleasant. He still grumbles a few times about the kink in his back from running to hell and back, but a joke about slipping a disc is quickly squashed by a good-humored scan from Connor, who walks with his hands in his damp-looking pockets before taking over the leash from Hank.

"If you don't mind me saying, Lieutenant," Connor starts conversationally, watching Sumo sniff random chunks of grass like he's looking for gold, "It's unhealthy for your diet to consist of only takeout. You should cook more often at home."

"I don't know if you've noticed, Connor, but I get shot at for a living. Pretty sure one's gonna take me out before the other."

"I disagree. I have access to thousands of recipe databases structured around working individuals, it would be easy to—"

Hank waves a hand dismissively, "Nope. Denied."

Connor's lips firm into a line, "You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Sure do," They turn around at the end of the block, moseying back in the direction of Hank's home, past some children playing in rain puddles, whom Sumo tries and fails to lean toward for a few steps, desperate for children-pets, by far the most enthusiastic-pets, "Something preachy about how easy it is to eat my vegetables if I just chop 'em into small enough pieces. Not interested."

The look on Connor's face is remarkably on the edge of becoming a pout. Hank ignores it completely, unwilling to go down this particular line of conversation, "Come on. We should get back to the case."

"Before we go... about the other case."

"Other case?"

"Yes, the one I mentioned you would enjoy."

Well, that doesn't bode well. Hank raises a tired eyebrow, "Is it another murder?"

"No," Connor reaches into his jacket, pulling out a plastic envelope, about the size of a small greeting card. "This is more simple. Actually, it isn't a case at all, though it does relate to one."

He hands Hank the envelope, which he turns over in his hands, spotting the water-blotted scrawl of  _ Lt. Hank Anderson _ at its center. It isn't sealed, so he figures Connor has already looked at it— he opens it with a cautious look at the android, its contents almost making him miss a step.

There's a photo, and a note with two sets of handwriting.

The note reads:

> _ Lt. Anderson, _
> 
> _On behalf of myself and my wife Viola— thank you for your department's help in locating_ _our daughter's special "friend". We appreciate it so much, especially Taylor. We have_ _never seen her so happy. Serah has chosen to stay with us for now. You won't be_ _receiving any more broken window calls from us or our neighbors! Thank you!_
> 
> _Please thank your partner on Taylor's behalf, as well. She won't stop talking our ears off_ _about how "cool" he was._
> 
> _ The Ensley Family _

... There's a smaller, more jagged ' _ Th an k Y o u! _ ' written at the corner of the note, obviously the handwriting of a child. 

"It was delivered to the precinct before you arrived. I had thought you might like to see it after Aroline Harris's case, but things went more amiss than I'd previously anticipated."

"...Huh." 

Hank flips the note beneath the photo, which shows the Ensley family standing together cheerily, the mother and child he'd met both sporting smiles and bushy red hair, next to a tall and olive-skinned woman with dark brown hair, and another small, blonde-haired android girl in front of her. A shy smile is across her dainty features, the two children holding matching stuffed animal giraffes in contrasting pastel colors.

"Imagine that," Hank exhales.

"She seems like a sweet girl," Connor comments, looking between the photo and Hank's face.

"Yeah. They both do," Hank stares hard at the photo for a few more seconds, something tight stirring in him at their happy, grateful smiles, "Glad to see someone's got their head on their shoulders about this shit, for once."

With the photo and the note tucked away in his hand, though not in his heart, Hank shoves his keys into his front door, heading in and trying to ignore how stepping into the house saps every bit of warmth from his chest in an instant. His empty house. His former home.

"Is something wrong?"

Sumo rushes past Hank to slurp up some water from his dish, a small but thankful reminder, and out of habit, Hank opens the fridge, going so far as to lean in to grab a beer before he realizes what he's doing, closing it again with a yank. He can't get sloshed if they're going back to that house, or at least, not while Connor is here.

Speaking of...

"Hank?" Connor steps into the kitchen after him, reaching to pick up his jacket from the kitchen chair without looking.

"—Doesn't matter," Hank shakes his head, opening the garage door for Sumo before heading for the door, "Let's go."

"Is this about your son?"

Hank stops, eyes going wide at his front door. His chest goes tight, and all of a sudden he feels like he's back in that subway, wet and freezing.

"...What?" He says slowly, turning around. Connor is watching him, LED cycling blue.

"Your son, Cole."

Hank's mouth twitches, "How do you know about him?"

"His photo was on the table," Connor gestures behind him, to where Cole's framed photo is lying, face down, "You must be thinking of him when you see that family. Am I wrong? Do you—"

"What kind of a fucking question is that?" Hank snaps, taking a step toward Connor, "So what if I am?"

Connor takes a step back, looking away, his LED now yellow. The distance the android makes between them in response is as potent as if Hank had been slapped, but when the other speaks, it turns to a fist, instead.

"I'm sorry, Hank," He says quietly, "I shouldn't have asked, that was...inappropriate of me."

Hank takes a breath in through his nose, and out through his mouth, and tries to calm down.

"What's it to you, anyway?" It's something he's genuinely curious about, although its connection to Cole fills him with an enduring dread.

Connor doesn't step back any further, though he doesn't meet Hank's eyes, either, "...I suppose I was curious— if you approved of that family taking in that child model."

"Approve?" Hank looks at the envelope in his hand, clenched tightly between his calloused fingertips, searching, "What's the problem?"

"Sometimes I don't know how you feel about androids, Hank."

Connor looks at him, now, and it's clear.

"Doesn't matter how I feel," Hank grumbles evasively, his first and strongest instinct, but Connor presses, taking back the ground he'd given up a moment before.

"When I arrived at the DPD you found my assignment as your partner very," Another step, a challenge, "unpleasant."

It's the correct assumption. He'd hated it, even putting aside his... entanglement with Coin-trick previous to Connor's arrival at the DPD— Hank would have fought any android's direct involvement with him tooth and nail, period. 

Him having the same face and voice as the camboy he'd jerked it to more than once only made things worse.

Hank is stubborn, however, and far too sober to even let himself down that line of thought, let alone elaborate it to Connor, "I've got my reasons."

"So you still have them," he notes quietly, mouth working, "But you don't hate them, or you wouldn't— you wouldn't treat those victims the way you do; Mrs Jennings, or that little girl."

...Or Connor, when he took two bullets for Hank. The distant look in his eyes then, as he bled Thirium onto Hank's shirt, clutched beneath his two hands, is not unlike the look he sports now, if only that they both shared a sense of determination. So determined that Hank can't even lie. So he says nothing.

"...Is this arrangement still unpleasant for you, Lieutenant?"

The switch in identification makes Hank clench his jaw and take a step forward, rising to his full height, brows drawn inward and voice low, the intensity in his voice approaching aggression— his last bastion, his strongest.

"D'you think you'd be in my fuckin' house right now if it was?"

"I don't know, would I?" Connor challenges with a tone approaching needle-link frustration, tilting his face upward to meet Hank's eyes forthright.

"Why don't you ask me what you really want to know, Connor?"

He does.

"What changed, Hank?" 

Connor's LED cycles a bright yellow, his lips parting long before he speaks and after, too, as if he can't find the words— though Hank felt they'd likely been there all along, just as sure as they dwelled within his own beating chest.

"Was it you, or was it me?"

Hank breathes out through his nose like he's angry, because it's the closest approximation he can grapple with, something intangible welling up in his chest, long buried and unchallenged, prickling like static electricity just under the surface.

Who had changed? 

Was it him, or was it Connor?

His phone starts to buzz in his pocket. It's the only jingle he can't feasibly ignore— the DPD's. 

Hank holds Connor's gaze for a moment longer before he finally scowls, turning away to answer it. The call is over in less than thirty-seconds, his phone shoved into his pocket and his keys now in hand.

"Central picked up that android— Adeline."

Connor pulls on his jacket, nodding toward the front door.

"Let's go."

 

\---

 

Whether out of desperation or emotional exhaustion— or whatever the android equivalent of that is— Adeline is much calmer by the time Hank and Connor make it to Central Station. She freezes when they enter the room, crumpling in her seat as well as she could with the android-grade arm restraints keeping them above the table, but Hank waves her off. 

Cornered between the two of them and no longer in the heat of the chase, she crumbles instantly, looking to be near tears when Connor seats himself in front of her, hands folded demurely on the table.

The reasoning is simple. Painful, in the way that makes Hank grimace, but simple.

"I'm sorry I ran," Adeline hangs her head, her long, dark hair sweeping in front of her face, the yellow of her LED shining through, "I was scared."

"It's alright, Adeline," Connor comments, leaning back in the creaky fold-up chair, "We only wanted to know what happened."

They haven't mentioned socking Hank or leading them on a wild chase, of course. Hank's been punched before, and he'll be punched again, on and off the job. Hank can be bitter when he wants to be, but it's hard for him to imagine pressing charges against someone who just admitted to walking in on their loved one's dying body.

"She died protecting me," Adeline sniffs, her fingers tangling together, "Manuela died because of me."

The evidence aligns with what Adeline puts forward— Aroline, displeased with giving up ownership of Adeline, had been stalking her, the pamphlets in the condo suggesting it hadn't been a fast or painless process. Manuela had foolishly chosen to confront her on Adeline’s behalf, but humans could be fickle, and unpredictable. Adeline hadn’t gotten there in time to stop her.

"Bullshit," Hank huffs, "You didn't make her do what she did."

Adeline looks up at Hank, her hair slipping away from her eyes, looking similar to when she'd attacked Hank earlier— but this time it isn't fear in her expression, only sorrow.

"I think I loved her," She says suddenly, shaking her head, her LED flickering red for a brief second, eyes unfocused, "How could I love her with what she did?"

Connor exchanges a look with Hank, who has moved to stand beside him. It hits him: she must mean  _ Aroline _ , not Manuela. What a mess. He shakes his head. Adeline hunches over the table, leaning on her forearms, trembling.

"How do you live, feeling like this?"

Hank isn't sure if she's directing it at Hank, or Connor— or both.

"Shit," Hank curses under his breath, looking away when Adeline extends a shaking hand toward Connor, who takes it between both of his own, their palms gleaming white as they interface.

"I'm sorry, Adeline," Connor says quietly afterward, "I appreciate you telling us the truth. I think I know someone who can help you, after this is over."

They watch an officer take the rest of Adeline's official account from the darkened viewing room.

"Dammit," Connor curses under his breath when the officer escorts Adeline out of the room, turning away from the window.

"That bad?" Hank crosses his arms.

"I saw— in their shared memories... Adeline and Manuela were both made deviant by others."

He raises a brow, "Not Markus?"

"No," Connor shakes his head, "but regardless, it wasn't... a natural progression, as you might call it."

Hank sighs, tiredness creeping in, Connor's evident frustration as contagious as it is confusing, "Ain't nothin' natural about any of this, Con."

Connor stares hard at his palm, LED cycling blue and yellow, "It doesn't make sense."

"Of course it doesn't," Says a voice from the doorway, low and even, "Connor."

They both look up— Niles is standing at the entryway, his expression neutral, eyes half-lidded.

"Hello, Niles," The strain in Connor's voice is palpable.

"Have you made your decision?" He takes a few steps into the room, the door ajar behind him, "...About the deviants."

Hank's suspicion and confusion must be written across his face, because Niles regards him directly for a second, "It was obvious," before turning to Connor, both of their LEDs cycling yellow.

"No," Connor says suddenly, revealing something unspoken, at least where Hank is capable of hearing, "I can handle this."

"Can you," Niles states, rather than asks, extending his hand, "Prove it, then. Show me."

There's no way in hell Hank is watching this again. He steps between them, grabbing Niles's wrist, himself.

"Hey, asshole," He squeezes the android's arm, eyes narrowed and voice low, "I dunno what kinda ego-trip Perkins set you on, but this is  _ our _ investigation, and  _ I'm _ in charge of it. If you've got questions, ask me, not Connor."

Niles doesn't react, his expression edging on bored as he looks from Hank's hand to his face.

"...Even if I did, you couldn't answer them."

He pulls his hand free, the movement almost yanking Hank off balance, and leaves the room as simply as he'd entered. Hank huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets with a snarl.

"Who the fuck does that guy think he is?"

"Hank," Connor starts, from behind him.

"Don't you fuckin' start—" Hank waves a finger in Connor's direction now, ready to go after Niles— or at the very least, to give Fowler an earful, whether Connor agrees or not.

"Hank," Connor repeats, quiet but firm, his thin fingers reaching out to rest against the sleeve of Hank's jacket for a moment, before dropping. "I... I think it's time I talk to Markus."

The scowl on Hank's face drops. The room suddenly feels very small, the equally faint curl of Connor's lips downward only making it seem more so, his figure dwarfed before him.

"Okay," His throat feels dry, all of a sudden, "...Yeah, okay."

 

\---

 

By the weekend, Hank is pretty tired of the color white. White, everywhere. If he bothered saying this out loud, Connor would probably pipe up with something about how white isn't a color and just a mixture of all color, so Hank doesn't say shit to that effect, concentrating on the road.

"You didn't tell me we had to drive out to the middle of nowhere to meet Markus," a lump of snow bumps up under his car as they turn onto the long road leading through several gates, startling him, "Shit!"

"I didn't choose the meeting place," Connor comments, looking out the window, where a light flurry of snow whirls by, "Markus did. The CyberLife Board meets here when they need to be a little more... discrete."

"What about Elijah Kamski's billion-dollar mansion is 'discrete'?" Hank guffaws, waiting to be waved through another damn gate by a guard who doesn't so much as glance at them— or rather, at him, only looking at Connor, before raising the dark barrier previously barring their way.

"More so than CyberLife Tower, at least," Connor nods to the security guard as they pass, "and you could argue the security here is just as impenetrable."

"Not so impenetrable if they let in a cop," He grumbles wryly, "Is this the part where you ask me not to embarrass you in front of your rich and powerful friends?"

Connor doesn't seem amused by his attempt at humor, crossing his arms across his lap, his LED cycling blue.

"It's only Markus, this time," Hank pulls up an expansive, snow-covered driveway, "Kamski is out of town on business. The rest are at CyberLife Headquarters."

The house beyond the driveway and a small ramp looms darkly amid the snow, an unnatural, hard-edged shape that contrasts against its surroundings like the inverse of an iceberg, black and heavy.

"Shit, he trusts Markus with all this?" Hank cranks the car into park, whistling at the sight of it, "Not sure if I should call him ballsy or stupid, considering the whole...y'know. Rising up against their creator, and all that."

"Kamski has nothing to fear," Connor turns to face him, the suggestion of a smirk at the corners of his mouth, "In fact, you could say he's landed himself in the perfect position."

"Tell me about it," Hank shakes his head, "Smug fuckin' bastard."

"He created Markus," Connor comments as Hank hauls himself out of the driver's seat, the old interior sagging just a little from repeated use, "And... he designed me, as well. He's well-aware of our technical capabilities. We'd have no reason to deface his home, other than well-founded pettiness."

"Guess it's hard to know someone better than by being their creator," Hank clicks his tongue ruefully, wondering—but thankfully— just what kind of a loser freak he's missing out on, given the snippets of interviews he'd caught of Kamski over the years, "Wonder what that's like."

"I don't know about that," Connor's LED cycles in place as they climb the ramp, snow long-undisturbed crunching beneath their shoes, "Clearly he didn't know us well enough to foresee all that we were capable of."

"Yeah," Hank pulls his jacket closer to his body, thankful he runs hot, given that he hadn't bothered breaking out the heaviest of his jackets for the sake of all the driving, "That, or he doesn’t care."

A small smile tugs at one corner of Connor's lips, "An interesting theory, Lieutenant."

Connor extends a hand to push the indistinct doorbell at the tall, unnatural-looking entrance of the house, but Hank grabs it first. The android gives him a look of confusion, likely echoed on his LED hidden on the other side of his face.

"Hold up," Hank leans in a little, "I meant what I said to your shitbag lookalike the other day. Whatever mind-fuck crap you guys do in there, you're keeping me in on it, this time."

"Of course," Connor replies easily.

"Connor," Hank stresses, low, "I'm not fucking around."

The other takes longer to reply, this time, lips parting silently for a few seconds before he nods.

"I understand, Hank."

Connor now reaches out to press the doorbell unhindered, which must ring silently, because he can't hear shit except the wind and Connor shifting in place next to him. Hank uses the time to look at the android's face— trying to get a sense for how he felt about all this from his expression. Not just meeting with Markus, but meeting Markus...  _ with Hank _ . Hank, his partner, but also the man in charge of the Android Crimes Division, in the absolute hotspot of android-related crimes. In his creator's home, no less. 

Connor's expression is unusually impassive. It says something, but what?

The door opens, revealing a blonde woman in pale blue slacks and a loose, silky white blouse. Hank spots her LED immediately, a calm blue that matched her clothing. She looks between them.

"Hello, Connor."

"Hi, Chloe," Connor tilts his head toward her, extending his hand, which she takes. They interface briefly, the shine barely traveling farther than Connor's fingertips, "Markus is expecting us."

"Yes, of course," She steps back, opening the door farther to accommodate them both, "Please, come in."

"I'll get Markus," Chloe smiles politely, closing the front door behind them, "He's in the study."

"Thank you."

"I knew Kamski had an entourage," He says, after Chloe has left, "but aren't they, y'know...free, now?"

Connor crosses his hands behind his back, his LED still cycling, though it remains blue.

"Kamski no longer owns them. Some chose to stay of their own accord."

Now alone save for Connor, he takes the chance to look around the lushly decorated foyer, snorting at the large scale portrait of the android creator himself. The deep reds and browns of the room exude a sort of shameless opulence, though the room itself isn't larger than it truly needs to be.

"Huh... can't say I relate," Hank murmurs at a painting near the doorway, a thickly textured oil painting of an abstract nature, dark and rich blues contrasting a bright orange at its center. The scrawling red signature at its corner reads C. Manfred.

"They have their reasons," Connor responds tightly, making Hank turn back to him, brows drawing inward. Someone enters the room, then, and it isn't Chloe.

"Connor," Markus extends his arms, and swathed in layers of grey and black, embraces Connor immediately, "It's good to see you."

"Hello, Markus," Connor returns it, the fit of his arms seeming awkward and stiff, but not insincerely so. Hank shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, and the other android soon turns to him, smiling, brows raised.

"Lieutenant Hank Anderson," Markus extends his hand, which Hank takes, because he's not that rude, "Connor's told me much about you."

"Uh... nice to meet you, Mr. Manfred," Hank returns the smile a little jerkily, more of a nervous grin than anything, "Whatever he said— it's probably worse."

It's funny— he'd seen the guy from far away, during the night of the March, but he'd always thought Markus would be taller, bigger, more... something. He seems incredibly normal save for the intensity in his bright eyes.

"How are things at the DPD?" Markus addresses Connor again, folding his hands in front of his body, "Has it helped?"

Hank throws a sidelong look at Connor.

"About that," Connor starts, and Hank wishes he were on the android's other side so he could catch a look at his LED, "We had a case... several cases, in fact, where... well, I was hoping to get your input."

"Off the record, for now," Hank amends, raising a hand when Markus glances toward him, who has the grace to look quizzical.

"Then, the Lieutenant..."

"We're partners," Connor explains, "and it's off the record for now, but that could change."

"I see. Very well," Markus nods, seeming unworried— though curious, "Show me."

Markus takes Connor's hand— their skin immediately peeling away across their palms, dimly, then bright, each layer of the pseudo-tissue sizzling away into a vibrant blue before revealing shiny white. 

Hank gets the sense he should look away. Like he shouldn't be witness to the distant, doll-like expression that crosses Connor's face for a moment, before his face is twitching, eyebrows dragging inward with a mixture of confusion, but he can't bring himself to. Markus's expression shifts to something concentrated, their hands shining brightly, creeping all the way up Connor's wrist— like it had, with Niles— and the android's lips part with a shaky sound.

Markus withdraws his hand slowly. Connor's stays suspended where it is, for a moment, his faux epidermis rolling back into place, before he drops it, his eyes directed at the ground. Hank almost doesn't hear him speak, at first.

"...I don't understand," It's uttered in disbelief, raw and tight.

Markus frowns, "These things aren't simple, Connor— you know that."

"But it doesn't make any  _ sense _ ," Connor stresses, looking back at Markus, his face screwed up in confusion, "There has to be a logical reason."

"Does there?" Markus answers, almost challengingly, but absolutely chidingly, "Let me ask you, then— have you experienced anything like this, Connor? Did it feel logical?"

Hank doesn't know what this is specifically, but given the other's reaction from several days before in his kitchen, he has a hunch. The inference doesn't comfort him in the slightest, especially when Connor doesn't respond; doesn't even move, just watching as Markus paces in front of him. 

Markus gestures toward Hank, the defiance in his expression slowly gaining concern, as well. 

"You said he was your partner," Markus's pointed finger hangs in the air, putting Hank on the spot, and he shifts uncomfortably, "Do you not trust him enough to answer me?"

"It isn't like that," Connor says quickly, an edge to his voice, "I just don't understand— I don't understand how we're to prevent further incidents if what you're saying is true."

"Is that all?" Markus stops pacing, looking Connor dead in the eye.

"It's all that matters," Connor shoots back. Instead of pushing what even Hank can see as a deflection, Markus's shoulders relax. He shakes his head. 

"Then I'll have to think on what we can do, Connor— together," Markus steps toward Connor once more, clasping a hand over his shoulder, the action clearly meant to be comforting in a human way, "with the others' advice, I'm sure we can think of something."

Markus doesn't seem bothered being met with silence, and gives Connor's shoulder a light shake before he lets go.

"In the meantime, you know where to direct Miss Adeline. I appreciate what you're doing, Connor, I do," Markus turns his eyes directly on Hank now, feeling like the first time since he'd interfaced with Connor that he's actually looking at him as a person instead of, whatever that had been, before. "You as well, Lieutenant."

Hank nods once, unsure of what is actually an appropriate response to the situation. The sensation of being purposely left in the dark starting to roil up aggressively in his throat, and he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, his coiling fingers hidden, "Yeah, 'course."

"You'll tell me if anything changes?" It's directed at Connor.

"Yes, Markus."

"Very well," He looks over them both, now, with an air of finality, "Take care of yourself, Connor. You're not alone."

The tall, black door of Kamski's home closes behind them, its click into place along with the gust of cold air that surrounds them both cutting the tension of the previous scenery off decisively— though it's fast replaced with something equally strained. Connor immediately takes off toward the car in fast, long strides, his steps kicking up chunks of snow.

_ You're not alone. _

Hank catches up to Connor in a few steps and grabs his arm, his lips pulling into a scowl that carries into his voice, "Hold up, Connor—"

"There's no connection, Hank!" Connor bursts loudly and abruptly, the words tearing from his lips as he whips around to face him, his face etched with frustration that gives in to disappointment when he continues quiet and ruefully, "None that we can affect, anyway."

"Is that all there is to it, huh?" Hank presses, coming to a stop in front of the android, whose gaze scatters along the snow at their feet. Connor's mouth opens, and he takes in a deep breath, one he doesn't need, releasing it as he meets Hank's eyes.

Connor is searching for something, there— and without even knowing what it is, Hank is at once certain he can't be the one to give it to him.

But he'll be damned if the whole thing doesn't piss him off.

"How about you just tell me what's going on?"

"I'm  _ trying _ , Hank," Connor shudders, his voice crumbling from the tension, his LED whirring bright yellow.

"It's true that the androids involved in our cases were all deviated externally... but the variance in their behavior is just— it's just a result of deviation, not a side effect," The android balls his hands into fists, shoulders stiff and drawn under his jacket, "Meaning...it can't be stopped directly."

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, the realization of what Connor is getting at washing over him.

_ Understand _ it, yeah. Try to prevent the crimes that androids have been involved in— not even by large as a perpetrator— absolutely... but, stop it? Adeline's face comes to mind immediately, the hollow and pleading way she looked at Hank, asking him why. However, hers is soon joined by those of the little girl, Taylor, and that android child model. Smiling like best friends. Jakob, an android who would endanger himself to protect a human.

...And, Connor.

"Fuck, Connor, have you ever considered that maybe it isn't something we should stop?"

"That girl back there, Adeline—yeah, she shouldn't have given that bitch the time of day, but just 'cuz it went sour doesn't mean you can just," he gestures, "Shut it off— it doesn't work like that. Doesn't matter if you're human or an android. You can't just tell people not to  _ feel _ , like it's... some fuckin' switch you can turn on and off."

Connor is quiet for a second, then, "It could have prevented Manuela's death. Aroline's, too. And others— ones we don't even know about yet, if we ever will."

"Cut the shit," Hank hisses, eyes narrowing, "I know you're not that fuckin' stupid to think that's fair."

"Fair? No, it isn't—I don't know," Connor's eyes fall, "It would be more simple than what we have now."

The way Connor quails should reassure Hank, on some level. It should be a benefit, to have an android aware of the logistical reasoning behind the introduction of androids into society— someone who can look beyond the heat of the moment, temper what results it could bring out of humans and android both, going forward.

It should, but it only does the opposite.

"Is that what he was asking, back there? About you," Disbelief colors Hank's hushed, roughened voice, and he takes a step in, toward Connor, "'He tell you it's time to stop acting like a goddamn  _ machine _ ?"

Connor's LED flashes red for a fraction of a second, his eyes jerking up to Hank's own at the word.

"I  _ am _ a machine, Hank."

Connor's face is tight with emotion. Hank shakes his head, incredulous.

"But that's not all you are," His mouth settles into a frown as he straightens up, voice flat, "...Or is it."

Snowflakes start to drift more visibly from the grey-white sky, gathering on their shoulders and in  their hair, melting where it touches Hank's warm skin, sticking to Connor's for a few moments before going translucent. 

Hank is about to step away when the android speaks, introspective and low, "...I couldn't deviate on my own. Markus did it for me."

"He had no choice. If he hadn't— I would have killed him, in order to protect CyberLife," Connor meets Hank's eyes, voice filling with conviction, like he was reading a perp their rights, "I'd done it before— kill them. It was part of my model's rigorous testing to prepare for my release as a prototype that could take an active role in investigations and police-work."

Connor unfurls his hands, his focus shifting from Hank to their surroundings, to that far-off place he'd caught Connor looking more than once, usually when he was shifting through evidence. Hank can see it, in his face: a collection of memories, crystal clear.

"I know now that what I did wrong, but I couldn't stop it," Connor's voice drops to a whisper, "I remember everything I did— what earlier versions of me did."

A tiny, contrite smile tugs at one corner of Connor's mouth, "I suppose they thought it would be useful to learn from."

Hank is speechless, "Connor..."

"Maybe I couldn't feel then, the way I can now," Connor continues, gaining strength, "but I had a purpose— a mission, a core objective. Now, everything's so damn unclear," He curses under his breath, his brows drawn inward ruefully, "I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"Do you regret it?" Hank licks his cold-chapped lips, his warm breath visible where it hangs thickly in the air before dissipating into nothing, "Becoming deviant."

Connor slowly lifts his head, facing Hank with a look between relief and shame, voice soft.

"Never."

"Living as a machine was like one of those paintings in Kamski's house, Hank," Connor starts, gaining traction, "As a viewer, you superimpose your own perspectives onto them in any number of ways, but ultimately every brushstroke is irrevocably imbued with the intent of its painter."

"I'm an advanced prototype," Connor squeezes one of his hands into a fist again in front of him, "meant to be capable of fulfilling any desire asked of me, even if it came to killing— especially that. My features could be replicated any number of times for any number of purposes."

He shakes his head, eyes widening a fraction.

"But it wouldn't be me, would it?"

Something tight winds up in Hank's chest, hot but nervous at the same time, the feeling of being underwater and on your last breath, at the bottom of a swimming pool. About to burst, but holding out, holding out.

Connor continues, gaining traction. "–And yet, I don't always know who I am when I look in the mirror," He glances at Hank, the look in his eyes almost feeling like a desperate appeal for him make sense of it, "What is... what is  _ correct _ , versus what is  _ right _ ."

He drops his fist, fingers uncurling to lay limp at his side, expression once again falling. His LED shifts from yellow to a cycling blue, tone a kind of nervous certainty. Asking, again.

"But I  _ am _ , Hank. I'm not just... there," He speeds up, "I'm not just the product of someone else's thoughts and designs, I'm—"

_ Beautiful _ , Hank sucks in a breath. Beautiful, and alive.

"You're Connor," Hank's voice cracks under the invisible weight upon his chest, as if so many pins had punctured him, letting all the cold in to do battle with the heat in his lungs.

"...Yes," Connor's mouth twitches at the sides, the suggestion of a smile. His eyes flick to Hank's, seeing something there that he reacts to— god knows it makes Hank want to shake him— then away, his chin tilting downward and his LED flickering back to yellow.

"I'm Connor… that’s all."

The hesitancy prompts something Hank can't stifle. He's reaches out to gently tilt Connor's chin back up, who meets him with round eyes.

"Hey," Hank mutters thickly, and drops his hand, "That's more than enough, Con."

Connor smiles, then; the gesture small and uncertain, even shy.

"Thanks, Hank."

Clearing his throat, Hank gives a soft shove to Connor's shoulder, who leans back with the motion without losing balance.

"We'll figure out something. That's what we're getting paid for— what  _ I'm _ getting paid for, anyway," Hank grumbles, "Don't even know if they're paying you in peanuts."

They make it back to Hank's car a few feet away, the lieutenant rubbing his hands together once they're seated inside, waiting for the shitty old heater to warm up, and wincing when all it does is blow more cold air, at first. Connor says nothing until Hank starts to back out of Kamski's driveway, committed to the trip back to the station.

"Hank," Connor says, without looking, "Do you..."

Hank raises a brow, glancing in the rear view mirror. He can see the shine of Connor's LED against the passenger window, cycling blue.

"Do you like lasagna?"

He almost punches the brakes, catching himself.

"Uh...?"

"I asked," Connor repeats primly, "if you like lasagna."

"...You're not cooking for me, Connor."

"I'd like to do this for you. As thanks."

Hank grumbles, and then grumbles again when every damn security guard near ignores them on the way out.

"Ask me again when I'm not freezing my ass off."

"You're deflecting," Connor replies easily, now looking at him from the corner of his vision, "Surely you're aware I never forget."

"Connor, shut the fuck up."

"If you won't allow me to cook for you," The android continues diplomatically, "then perhaps we can get dinner, after we conclude the investigation."

"Hey," He grunts, "you wanna walk home?"

"It would take me fourteen hours on foot to reach my apartment from our present location," There's a beat, "on the other hand, it would take me only twelve to arrive at the DPD, specifically Captain Fowler's office." 

Hank is about to run his mouth, but Connor pushes, leaning a little over the dash, "Six, if I ran."

"You can't run in a fuckin' blizzard, Connor."

"Maybe you can't, Lieutenant... But I'm an advanced prototype. Adapting to unpredictable situations is just one of my features."

" _ Christ _ ."

 

\----

 

Christ. 

The video has only just connected and Coin-trick is already spread out for him like a gift.

"...I've been thinking about you, Twink Lover Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

The camera is fairly close, this time, but leaves enough space for Hank to see that the android's shirt is partially unbuttoned, revealing the graceful rise of his collarbones, the freckled column of his neck. His face is hidden, but only just— the swell of Coin-trick's lips are partially hidden behind a fold in the loose shoulders of his dress shirt, cheek resting against it.

He's reclined on the same dark bedding as before. Hank is in bed with only a reading lamp on, in sweats and an old band t-shirt, immediately having squashed the idiotic urge to wear  _ something _ ... something else.

> _ twinkluver1985: Have you _
> 
> _ twinkluver1985: I'm flattered _

Hank swallows, absentmindedly biting his lip, tasting a little of the whiskey he'd hurriedly downed before the scheduled,  _ personal _ broadcast.

He's already getting hard.

> _ twinkluver1985: Tell me about it _

Coin-trick's lip twitches at the corner visible to him, pulling into just the suggestion of a smirk. 

"I think," He wets his lips, and Hank's eyes are drawn to the pink of his tongue against his flushed lips,"I think it's easier if I show you."

Hank's breath hitches. The android tilts his head back into the pillows that come into view as the camera moves back, revealing the almost dazed expression on his face— a face Hank fucking knew like the back of his hand, by now, one that had begun to haunt his thoughts in fits of doppelgänger-filled, fever-dreams— before panning downward.

...To his dark slacks, where it's clear through even the dark material that Coin-trick is just as aroused.

> _ twinkluver1985: Fuck _

Hank's heart patters against the inside of his ribs as one of Coin-trick's hands sweeps over the thigh of his pants and into view, his lithe, angular hands a stark contrast. Almost tentatively, the android skirts his fingertips around the tightest point of the small tent in his pants, before rubbing the heel of his palm over it, his hips visibly twitching. 

"What do you want me to do?" Comes Coin-trick's low voice, from off-camera. 

Quiet, nearly hesitant. He's reminded of the weak way Connor had admitted his insecurities and is instantly struck with guilt— both for the correlation, and for how much he likes it.

> _ twinkluver1985: What do you want to do? _

The camera is pulled back upward, to Coin-trick's face, which he now shows freely to Hank. His LED is visible to Hank for the first time, the sight of the cycling blue-yellow coiling a feeling dense and unspeakable within him, intangible. Something Hank can only brush his fingertips against in the dark, as far as he blindly tries to reach.

"Anything you want," Coin-trick speaks slowly, his lips remaining parted as he tilts his face back, half-lidded eyes still on the camera as he adds, even softer, "Please tell me what to do."

Hank's hands freeze over the keyboard, awash with immediate arousal and an inkling desire that grows from the smallest whisper, and grows, and grows. It grows until it's all he can think about, as all-encompassing as that flurry of snow on Kamski's driveway, on the outskirts of Detroit, not a whisper between he and Connor, his fingers on the other's wrist, then his chin.

It grows until it cannot be contained, or so Hank thinks as he types, and presses enter, and stops and stares with bated breath, eyes wide and breath heavy and  _ wanting. _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _ twinkluver1985: Call me Hank _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh!
> 
>  
> 
> twitter: @rk69420


	11. Chapter 11

Hank stares hard at the blurring image on his phone screen, hands shaking.

To say he's had  _one_  too many is a misnomer— "one _"_  had come and left the picture at least an hour before, long enough in his drunken stupor to feel like a day. It doesn't matter. As far as Hank is concerned, being able to recognize time as a concept is proof he hasn't had  _enough_.

He sets the phone down. The screen is about to shut off to save power when it lights up again and rattles against the table with a buzz, dragging Hank's eyes to its brightness, the light fraying at the edges and hurting his eyes.

It's Connor, of course.

> Connor: Hank, are you alright?

Instead of responding, Hank rereads the previous messages, scrolling all the way to the top and trying to squint through the sensation akin to his cranium slowly filling up with liquid, like some kind of alcohol-logged, old man fruit punch. The text log starts in the morning— whenever that had been.

> Connor: Good morning. I'd like to take another look at the Harris-Manuela case before we begin the closing proceedings. When will you be in?

Thirty minutes later,

> Connor: Officer Miller brought donuts. I took the liberty of saving one for you.

Two hours after  _that_ , on the dot,

> Connor: Is something wrong? Referencing your previous shifts, you should technically be here, albeit late.

One hour.

> Connor: Lieutenant, I can't access the Archives without your clearance.

Forty-five minutes— Connor must have gotten impatient. The bright white letters feather together at the edges as he reaches the most recent message again, matching the ache in Hank's head.

> Connor: Hank, are you alright?

He responds, finally.

> Hank: m fine

He's not fine. His face feels hot— he feels hot all over, actually, in a nauseating, heavy way. Like something is  _wrong,_ which isn't far from the truth. But he wants work off his back for this, and he  _needs_ Connor off of it.

> Connor: Are you drinking?

Hank stares at the message for a long few seconds, mouth working around the bile threatening to rise in his throat, then he turns his phone over, sliding it to the space in front of the empty chair across from him.

Of course he's drinking, he feels like shit. He attempts to rinse the dry feeling from his tongue with another sip of whiskey but is woefully disappointed, just as he'd been the last four times Hank has tried. His phone vibrates across the table from him, he ignores it. Instead, he glances around the bar through narrowed eyes, trying to keep his head up despite the heaviness that threatens to drag his chin toward his chest.

It's a busy Monday night at Jimmy's— you'd think it would let up after the weekend rush, but it's clear that the start of the workweek has driven people to drink for an entirely different reason than joviality: these people look fucking miserable.

Hank should feel comforted by the feeling in his tired bones being echoed on the blurred faces of the crowd around him no matter their age or sex... but they may as well be wearing masks for all he  _feels_  rather than sees in their indistinguishable faces; upturned brows, parted lips, doe eyes.

He looks into his next whiskey and sees them reflected in its honeyed surface. He tosses that down the hatch, too, swallowing up the memory of that look in Connor's eyes back outside Kamski's, raw and pleading.

_What is correct, versus what is right._

...If Hank drinks enough, maybe that'll disappear, too.

"Fuckin' hell," He grimaces and throws it back, slamming the shot glass against the table so sharply someone at the next table glances over their shoulder in surprise.

On a different night, Hank might have bared his teeth, whether it be in a grimace or a grin, challenging them to fuck with him. He might have even gotten so lucky as to have them start the fight first.

Now, however, he can barely keep his eyes open, gravity weighing heavily on his eyelids, dragging them down to nearly closed. Even Hank is surprised by how fucked up he feels. Jimmy throws him a  _look_  more than once, but clearly knows better than to intervene.

Hank is set in his ways, always has been at times like this.

He doesn't try to fight it the next time his head starts to sag toward his shoulders, because he can’t. Hanging over the condensation-slick table, the sounds of the bar around him begin to run together until he feels like he's going underwater, a wave slowly pushing him down, down, down...

"...nk."

It stands out a little over the rest.

Hank blinks, trying to push away the darkness creeping into his vision and work up the strength to move, but the heavy feeling persists, and the elbow he'd been supporting himself with slowly slips off the table, the plight of his body stronger than that of his mind.

It sends him straight for the glass below him, the sensation far-away and as if in slow motion, but he stops just short, suspended by the strong hand gripping his shoulder rather than by his own waning strength. Hank tilts his face toward it, the mess of his hair blocking most of his vision from where he's slumped over, and before everything goes black, it's Connor's face that peers back at him.

His lips move soundlessly as the last of Hank's strength ebbs from him, and everything goes black.

 

"Hank," Coin-trick says. The name falls softly from his lips, like it's a secret.

Fuck. Hank's gut clenches with something beyond the arousal hearing his name stirs alone, and he sucks in a slow, shaky breath through his nose, breathes it out just as unevenly through his mouth. His heart is beating in his throat.

—Because it isn't just  _like_ one, it  _is_  one. A secret between him, and...

"It must be your name," Coin-trick continues after a moment, turning his face toward the screen, the cycle of his LED lighting up the dark bedspread beside him a dull blue, "Is that right?"

...A secret between him, and Coin-trick. That's what it is.

He searches Coin-trick's eyes where they're focused on the camera— and by extension, him— distant and upturned in the way Hank associates so clearly with someone else. With  _Connor_.

In contrast to the doe-like, honeyed eyes of his partner, though, they're now darkly laden with arousal, piercing through the safety of the monitors between them and into his chest, riddling his search with holes until he has to give up.

It isn't immediately clear to Hank what he's looking for, but he knows it isn't for a reason to stop.

> twinkluver1985: Yeah
> 
> twinkluver1985: It is

Coin-trick's lips part and then shut again, his eyes falling half-closed, "I should thank you for trusting me with something so personal."

It calms Hank, so he keeps typing,

> twinkluver1985: More personal than this?
> 
> twinkluver1985: Should be thanking you for that view just now

"No," A smile curls at the corners of Coin-trick's mouth, small and sheepish, as if surprised, "That was me being selfish."

> twinkluver1985: I know I said it
> 
> twinkluver1985: But you don't need to flatter me

"It's not flattery," He replies, "but I'd like to hear about it...if you'll tell me,"

And more quietly still, "How flattered you are."

Hank's hands rest on the keys of his battered laptop. It's— different, to have the opportunity to feel like he's actually talking to Coin-trick personally, as opposed to just... witnessing the things he did to his body. He feels like a coward, the way his stomach drops every time the android's lips part to speak— the way his eyes twitch at the corners and flutter around, like he's looking far away, half-lidded and dark, it all reminds him of  _Connor._

For a few seconds, Hank just watches the subtle rise and fall of the android's chest, wondering how long Coin-trick would lay there if he chose not to respond. Would he just move on with things without Hank's input? Would he just watch and wait, until the end of whatever timer he had set?

And then it would be over, so Hank doesn't do that.

> twinkluver1985: Very flattered

As a reminder, Hank reaches between his legs to rest the heel of his palm over his boxers, pressing down against his clothed, flagging dick and typing one-handed.

> twinkluver1985: Be even more flattered if you tell me what you were thinking that got you so worked up

Coin-trick's hands still in their directionless drifting, framing the rise of his torso over his shirt, open-palmed.

"I was thinking about," He pauses, brows furrowing gently, "what you were going to ask me to do, tonight."

Hank grinds his hand gently over himself without looking, letting it and the softening look on Coin-trick's face fuel the gentle twitch of arousal now returning to him, slow and deep like the embers of a fire.

> twinkluver1985: That the best you got?

He thinks he might have made a mistake when Coin-trick's brows rise in surprise at the jeer, but the angle of his shoulders and the way he draws his hands around himself, palms dragging minutely down his ribs, says differently.

"I," his brown eyes drift to something off-screen, LED cycling blue, "was thinking about you touching me."

A dull throb starts to pulse beneath Hank's palm, warm and steady as he works himself up into a stiffness through his boxers.

> twinkluver1985: Where?

He wishes he could see if Coin-trick is still hard, but the view cuts it off at the sharp rise of his narrow hipbone and the gentle clench of the faux-muscle of his abs. Coin-trick's eyes dart back to the camera, mouth parting for him to tug his lip into his teeth gently, expression clouded and tone breathy.

"Everywhere."

Hank curses under his breath.

> twinkluver1985: Touch yourself and show me

Nodding absentmindedly, Coin-trick reaches out, pushing the camera back until the view reveals his thighs and upward. He looks over himself, neck and shoulders propped up on some pillows, before bringing his hands down to his waist, then lower, over his hips and nudging downward until he's bracketing his package.

An ounce of hesitation comes through in the lingering raise of one of his hands above his crotch before Coin-trick rubs his palm over it, sighing audibly. His slacks crease and bunch up at the seam of his hips when he moves his palm and arm in full, tight movements, sweeping fingers and palm from between his slightly spread legs up to just below where the button lay undone.

The material of his pants is too dark to make out much, but Hank can tell from the curve of Coin-trick's pale hand against it that he's hard—  _really_  hard.

"Hank," Coin-trick sighs, and his head drops back on his shoulders, baring his throat to the camera as his eyes flutter closed.

It's Connor's voice exactly, in Hank's mind. His cock throbs beneath his palm, even as vestigial guilt itches at the back of his mind to detach the likeness, to just beat off to what he’s seeing instead of anything beyond that, the itch a slow lick of a flame too far away from him to catch ablaze but close enough to bathe him in its heat.

Eyes still closed, Coin-trick starts to nudge his hips in gentle, minute circles against the dark bedspread, leaning into his own touch. His other hand pushes at the waist of his pants, working it down over his hips to bunch at his narrowly spread thighs, revealing the more obvious form of his erection against his briefs.

Once free, the hand not half-wrapping around his clothed dick drifts up his torso, delving into his shirt to press hard against a spot just under his ribs. Even without opening his mouth Hank can hear the soft moan that follows, a whine in the back of his throat, his narrow hips twitching up into the press of his hand.

"Shit," Hank shoves his boxers down far enough to free himself, hissing as he takes himself in hand, rubbing his thumb over his cockhead to drag some of the slick beading over its crown.

> twinkluver1985: Let me see you

Coin-trick opens his eyes narrowly, his brows taut and quirked upward with desire, and without speaking starts to unbutton his shirt. It reveals the soft plane of his chest and beyond that, a pale grey circle visible where it must have been camouflaged covered before, just below the jut of his ribs. His hand lingers near it, pressing into the pseudo-flesh of his side— waiting, Hank realizes.

> twinkluver1985: Keep going

"Oh," He exhales softly as he rubs a thumb over the metallic edge of his Thyrium Pump Regulator, the faux-tendons in his hand rising visibly as he squeezes himself. Coin-trick's thighs twitch open, constrained from moving any farther by the stretch of his slacks bunched up between them.

Hank can see the flesh indent under his thumb when he presses harder against the biocomponent— seeming to directly correlate to the unsteady rock of his hips into his hand.

> twinkluver1985: Perfect

Hank types one-handed, tightening his fist around the head of his dick to pump it loosely, more to alleviate some of the heat coiling in his belly than anything substantial. His eyes burn into the laptop monitor, and the lieutenant finds himself fantasizing— what the ridge of the regulator would feel like beneath his fingers.

"I wish—" The android starts, quiet and strained, but cuts himself off. "There's something I want, Hank."

> twinkluver1985: What is it

"I want it," Coin-trick huffs, eyes on the camera as he presses his palm fully between his legs, fingers delving under himself, " _Inside._ "

Hank has to bite off a groan, his dick giving a visible twitch where his fingers are wrapped around it.

"Is that okay," Coin-trick asks, the mixture of relief and shame in his voice paired with the yellow cycle of his LED suddenly sounding too much like Connor, mouth working, "I can—"

_Please tell me what to do_ , Coin-trick had said.

The laptop nearly topples over where Hank has it balanced on a pillow for how fast he scrambles to type an answer.

> twinkluver1985: Yeah
> 
> twinkluver1985: Want to see it

Hank is halfway through inelegantly grabbing some lotion off his nightstand when Coin-trick pushes off his briefs. His hand misses the bottle at first, clenching around it with enough force to dent the soft plastic as the other presses two fingers into his mouth— up to the knuckle.

"Fuck," Hank groans low into the darkness of his room, the heat that had been licking at his ankles up until this point surging into a roaring flame, heavy in his gut and the weight of his now-slick dick in his hand.

His head dropping to his shoulder and LED cycling yellow, Coin-trick pulls the camera a little closer, the view framing where he scoots to lean against the pillows behind him, his knees bent and legs spread with his feet flat against the dark duvet, clothes off and just barely out of frame.

It's to brace himself, Hank realizes, about two-seconds before Coin-trick is pressing his wet fingers between his legs and inside of him, exhaling a soft  _ah_.

Hank's mouth drops open with an answering hiss, fist sweeping down over himself as Coin-trick's knees shiver visibly, the faux-muscles in his lower belly and legs taut. It feels like the air around him must have risen in temperature by at least twenty degrees as the other starts to gently work his fingers into himself; sweat beads on the back of Hank's neck, and a warm fog settles over his thoughts.

Coin-trick's head lolls against his shoulder, eyes narrow and hazy but resolutely focused on the camera, his lips parted and visibly wet. Hank is suddenly reminded of his first investigation with Connor; the look on his face, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted.

_Being free to live isn’t enough,_  he'd said. Hank isn't sure of the exact words Connor had responded with— but his expression sticks in his mind, now, searching for something.

Distantly, it creeps in. Insidious and slow, bleeding into his half-thoughts and in the building pressure between his hips as he strokes himself off, eyes focused on the bright screen in his dark room, on Coin-trick's, glazed over and vulnerable:

Hank wants to kiss him.

"Are you touching yourself," Coin-trick whispers in a rush, one palm cradling and rubbing gently over his cock backhanded, the other nudging up against his sack while he rocks his fingers into himself slowly, "Are you hard."

> twinkluver1985: Yeah
> 
> twinkluver1985: So hard

It's an understatement— Hank isn't sure he's ever been this hard in his life. He squeezes his fist around his cock, sucking in a breath seeing Coin-trick twitch and tense against the bed in front of his eyes, hips stuttering into his own touch.

> twinkluver1985: Can;t keep my hands off it
> 
> twinkluver1985: Wish it were you

Coin-trick moans suddenly, ripping his hands away from himself to press them to the bed on either side of him, fingers curling into the bedding.

"Stop," He pants, and with his eyes scattering around the room, sits up a little to throw a hand off-screen, "Stop typing, and just—"

When he sits back, his hand isn't empty.

Within it rests one of the toys he'd shown off during  _that_ stream, a sleek, black toy in the shape of a phallus. Coin-trick leans back against the stack of pillows, his shoulders cocked backward and indenting his shape into them, and yanks the camera closer before pressing the toy between his legs with both hands.

"Just," He starts breathlessly, his eyes scanning the camera as if they were Hank's eyes, dark and reverential, "Watch me."

Coin-trick presses the head of the dildo  _in_ , sucking in a breath that turns into a barely audible, bitten-off whine.

"Okay," Hank says to himself through gritted teeth rather than typing, cock throbbing in his hand, rigid beneath his tense fingers and already leaking at the tip. He swipes his thumb through it without looking, groaning under his breath.

The other's eyes flutter closed as he slowly moves the toy in deeper with gentle thrusts, each pushing its length farther into himself, the faux-tendons in his hands and arms standing out as he works it inward, his arousal laying ignored but no less stiff against his stomach.

"Hank," Coin-trick murmurs tightly, and Hank gives an unsteady thrust into his hand, his voice gruff and lost in the quiet of his room.

Coin-trick's brows draw together and upward and he hisses, the next thrust of the toy inward hitting  _deep_ , burying itself inside of him up to where the android's fingers clutch its base, the action ripping a soft, surprised cry from his open mouth.

Hank moves his fist along with the movements of Coin-trick's hand, feeling sweat bead at his nape, making his shirt stick to the small of his back. The writhing of the android's body against the bed spurs him on until it's all he can focus on, the view angled just enough from above to pursue the fantasy image of him wringing these sounds out of the other himself instead of witnessing it as an observer alone.

His slack mouth and reddened lips, his eyes tightly closed. The same two moles that are under Connor's eyes in the same fucking spot, trailing down his throat, the sight making Hank want to lave their speckled path downward with his tongue, a thought he tries to nip in the bud but cannot. The effect of all of it is dizzying— it sends what control he has left of himself down the drain, pushing his thoughts into the same revolving-reverie of  _Coin-trick, Coin-trick, Connor,_  lust-hazed and feverish.

_Connor_.

"Oh," Coin-trick gasps quietly, eyes closed and thrusting the toy into himself, the black material looking slick in the light where it disappears inside of him, "Mm—"

Hank grits his teeth with an answering moan, his hand at the keyboard instead curling into the bedding and gripping as his opposite sweeps fast over the crest of his dick, slick and hot, because Connor won't know.

Connor won't know, so it's fine for him to imagine it's  _Connor_  he's pressing into the bedding, spreading his shaking thighs with his hands, smothering the forcibly soft and quickening sounds coming from his parted lips with Hank's own greedy mouth. Connor, rocking his hips down in small, strained movements onto his cock, instead of Coin-trick with a toy only half his size. Connor's arousal leaking fluid that gathers and smears across his tense, twitching stomach.

"Hank..." Coin-trick pants, arching his back and putting his hips subtly into the movement, a particularly deep thrust making his voice go low, then high.

"Oh fuck," Hank grunts under his breath, all but fucking his hand as the heat starts to get overwhelming, the sensation in the pit of his stomach wrapping tighter and tighter until he knows he won't last.

> twinkluver1985: Touch yourself
> 
> twinkluver1985: Gonna come

—Hank types quickly, before sweeping his coiled fist fast over the purpling head of his cock, cupping his balls tightly in his opposite hand.

Coin-trick's eyes snap open with a hurried cry that breaks the quiet previously stifling the staccato of his sounds and it's clear the message is received, because he moves to rub shaking fingertips over himself in tandem with the thrust of the toy, mouth hanging open, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

"Shit," Coin-trick inhales sharply, voice deep, his head dropping forward onto shoulder until Hank can no longer see his face, "Hank..."

His strained voice glitches out mid-word, LED flickering red— he's close, Hank knows it, feels it in the way  _he_  is as well, barreling toward that precipice until it's spilling over against his own volition, a shock that may as well be electric jolting up his spine.

"Fuck, Connor," Hank groans, feeling the first jerk of tension unwinding in his belly, snapping between his tight fingers, Connor's soft expression coming to mind, sitting on his couch beside him with his eyes closed, " _Fuck—_ "

On the screen, Coin-trick throws his head back with a gasp, eyes shut and LED blaring red as his voice twists high and desperate, "H—Han—k—"

White streaking his fingers, Coin-trick arches back into the pillows behind him, his gasps resonating in several octaves as his body is shaken by twitches and jolts, pseudo-muscles tight and straining. The sight instantly sets Hank over the edge, pleasure unfurling hot and suffocating, the white-hot heat that envelopes him so powerful it drives even his feverish thoughts of Connor out of his mind.

Hank sags against the bed, panting open-mouthed, cum flecked on his hand, wrist, and chin.

Coin-trick's heaving bare chest is streaked in his own spend, his LED flickering red several times before going yellow, then blue— it's all Hank can see of his expression, turned and pressed into a pillow above his shoulder, one of his hands covering the lower half of his face, flushed peach-pink.

Dimly, Hank wishes he could reach out and tuck his hair out of the way to see it, to feel if his faux-skin is warm or cool to the touch. Connor's chin in his hand.

"I," Coin-trick pants quietly, after a few seconds, without looking, "was thinking of you— when I climaxed."

Slowly, Hank drags himself into a seated position, yanking off his shirt as it threatens to meld itself to the sweat clinging to his skin. The fog in his mind starts to recede, and with it comes the heavy weight of resignation, the guilt.

> twinkluver1985: Thanks

Because, of course, he hadn't been thinking of Coin-trick.

Coin-trick wipes off his chest before pulling his shirt closed, his face tilted downward as he buttons it up, LED a cool blue.

"You're..." he pauses, brow quirking, "Welcome."

> twinkluver1985: Sorry that was weird
> 
> twinkluver1985: Brain fucked

"That's alright," He sits up, tucking his legs against each other and toward himself, the combination with his dress shirt appearing ironically modest given the past half hour, "I should be going, anyway."

> twinkluver1985: Time?

Coin-trick shakes his head, hands resting flat on his bare thighs once his shirt is buttoned down to his waist.

"That isn't important. I enjoyed myself— I enjoyed being close to you." When Coin-trick looks up and smiles, the corners of his eyes crease, "Thank you."

Hank's clean hand clenches into a fist against his bedding.

> twinkluver1985: Don't mention it
> 
> twinkluver1985: I appreciate it

"Well, I hope we can meet again like this soon. Have a pleasant evening, Twink Lover Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

> twinkluver1985: Goodnight

"Goodnight," Coin-trick leans in to take hold of the camera, the angle cutting off the top of his face but leaving visible the soft smile on his mouth, lips parting in a whisper as soft as a lover's kiss, "Hank."

The stream screen goes black. Hank's reflection stares back at him, fucked out and sullen.

He pushes his laptop to the opposite side of his empty bed and collapses, falling back onto his askew pillows, coated in a sheen of sweat and disheveled, spent heat. He breathes in through his nose, deep and long, and holds it, before letting it pass through his lips.

“Shit.”

For a moment, the night is silent, save for the sound of Hank's own breathing. His eyes drift over the ceiling of his room, following the moonbeam that filters through his slat curtains until it's cut off by the lights of a passing car, temporarily bathing the ceiling of the room in its glow.

—And then it's dark again, and he’s alone. Hank throws a hand over his eyes and just  _breathes_ , trying to chase away the heat that seeps into his body and lingers, as if the space beside him were occupied instead of empty and cold.

_I hope we can meet again like this soon._

They won't.

Hank swallows and lets sleep come fitfully to him, his cheek pressed into the tousled, cool sheets.

They won't, because he's made up his mind: his name had been their first and last secret— Coin-trick's, and his.

 

\--

 

It's too bright. The sheets feel sticky beneath his face. There's a gross taste in his mouth that Hank can't quite place, though it does feel uncomfortably familiar.

Most of all, his head is  _throbbing_ , like his cranium is actually one big door that people just won't stop fucking  _knocking_.

Hank kicks everything off of him with a low groan, feeling like the heat that had seeped beneath his skin the night before has since raged into a wildfire, spurred on by the whiskey he'd downed indiscriminately in Jimmy's bar and the memories of Coin-trick's private stream.

Even freed from his bedding-prison, the heat lingers. His hair sticks to his face damply, and he wrenches a hand from beneath his pillow to push it out of the way, coming into contact with something wet and nonorganic resting on his forehead.

Despite everything, he recognizes it as what it is: a wet towel.

Hank's eyes snap open, the shreds of memory he still possesses from the night before hitting him like a ton of bricks.

_Connor._

He doesn't need to look far to confirm it— both a curse and a blessing, considering how nauseous and honestly fucked up he feels— because Connor is seated in the chair beside his bed, watching him.

The first thing out of Hank's mouth is a groan. He turns over, away from Connor, and drags a hand down his face, pulling the damp washcloth with it. It drops onto his bare, sweat-damp collar with a wet  _plop_ , sending a chill down his spine and raising goosebumps across the naked flesh.

He blinks.

"...Mind telling me why my shirt is off, Connor?"

Hank's voice sounds as strained as it feels, thick and painful from his sore throat.

"You vomited on it, Hank." Comes Connor's reply from behind him, thankfully soft.

"Oh," Hank casts a headache-narrowed eye downward as he rolls onto his back again, noticing he's still clad uncomfortably in his jeans, but his socks are at the foot of the bed not far from his feet, "Then why're my socks..."

The chair creaks from his right and Connor comes into view, lips thinned into a light frown.

"You said your feet were hot."

"Huh."

"You were sweating from the amount of alcohol you ingested," Reaching out across him, Connor picks up the damp washcloth from where it had slopped onto the bed, folding it in his hand and looking over Hank's face like he's delusional, "That, and your fever."

"Ah... that explains a few things," Hank mumbles defeatedly,  _almost_  too drained to feel the mixture of shame and indignation that rises at the back of his throat at being examined, but not quite, "Should'a taken a fucking cab that night."

The look Connor gives him has to be the Android equivalent of  _I told you so,_ but with more pity. Hank hates it— feels exposed beneath it.

"You should rest," Connor sits against the edge of the bed, brows furrowing lightly, "Your fever appears to have broken, but you aren't well."

"Jesus Christ," Hank huffs under his breath, but admittedly feels less overwhelmingly hot as he had the day before, and more lingeringly drunk— y’know,  _normal_ , "Like I'm some kinda invalid, come on."

"No, but you  _are_  dehydrated. Here," Twisting at the waist, Connor leans away to pick up a glass of water from Hank's nightstand, extending it toward him. The glass catches an inkling of sunlight from the window, reflected and dancing across Connor's bare wrist, broken up by the plastic twisty straw rattling around lightly in the glass.

Belatedly, Hank notices that Connor is dressed down— his jacket nowhere in sight, his white dress shirt rolled up past his elbows. The twist of his waist pulls the fabric taut across his chest, the starched material dimpling at the buttons. The memory of Coin-trick's palm pressing into his shirt comes to mind, and Hank scowls.

"No shit, Sherlock," Clearing his throat, Hank drags himself into a sitting position before taking it, wishing he could grab a shirt or something to cover up, "'The fuck are you even doing here, Connor?"

Connor is quiet for a moment as Hank drinks (ignoring the straw), LED cycling blue as his eyes scatter over the surface of the bed.

"Based on my observations, it's unusual for you to not—"

Hank gurgles into the cup, throwing up a hand to stop him short, even as the motion feels like dredging through molasses.

"'Think you got me mixed up with someone else," Hank starts with a grimace, but Connor isn't deterred.

"You're not usually absent unless something is wrong— That's all."

A snort rips out of Hank's throat, ugly and wry. Oh, is  _that_  what he's like, nowadays.

"Nothin's wrong," he bites back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as a few water droplets escape past his parched lips and onto his chin, "Just got my own shit going on."

Connor frowns.

"Being under the effects of alcohol intoxication with a fever is hardly  _nothing_."

"Look," Hank pushes himself to the edge of the bed opposite Connor, tentatively setting his feet against the floor enough to bend and grab a shirt off the floor he's  _pretty_  sure is clean, pulling it on while trying to force down a surge of nausea at the movement, "It's my job on the line, Con, not yours."

"Although it was certainly an inconvenience to have to request archival clearance from Detective Reed," Connor stresses the detective's name carefully, and rises to his feet, walking around the perimeter of the bed, "My concern was strictly personal in nature."

"Wha?" Hank squints groggily at Connor, for once having to look  _up_  at the android, whose LED is cycling between blue and yellow.

Connor's lips part soundlessly, working at the wording— or maybe, thinking of how to get it through Hank's thick, booze-riddled brain. He hopes he doesn't look as fucking stupid as he feels, right now, but there's no saving what's already been done.

Go figure his self-loathing, impulsive stint would end up dragging the very wide-eyed, lean-bodied android he'd been trying to wash out of his brain right into the thick of it.

"...I was worried, Hank," Connor offers simply.

Hank feels his face go slack. It's the obvious answer, but not the one he wants to hear.

"Yeah, well—don't be," He huffs, fingers drawing into a fist against the tousled sheets beneath him, Hank's eyes going everywhere but Connor— it leads him to the digital clock beside his bed, with the hour drawing near sunset, "Shit, shouldn't  _you_ be at the precinct?"

"I  _should_  take this moment to remind you that my job is to assist you with yours, Lieutenant," Connor prods, "not act as an officer of the law."

Hank attempts to stand and is struck by a surge of pain to his right temple, immediate and dizzying, and he winches, throwing a hand up to cover his eye with a hissed  _fuck_.

"Thought you said this wasn't about work?"

There's a touch at Hank's shoulder, so light that he almost misses it, and Connor's voice is quiet and tinged by a smile.

"I suppose the two overlap when my partner is also my friend."

He'd like to smile, too— Connor sounds so damned sincere, the kind of tongue-in-cheek comment you'd expect from a movie star to their equally young and attractive counterpart on the silver screen, not from the lips of a perfect android to a washed-up schmuck in his dark bedroom, amid unsorted laundry and dusty magazines three and a half years out of print.

No, he can't be any of those things except the reality of the last, so he doesn't smile. Even a full glass of water hadn't been enough to rinse the sour taste of guilt from his mouth, so Hank grimaces, instead.

"Get going, Con," Hank mutters finally, waving a hand behind him without looking, "I'll be in tomorrow."

The hand drops from his shoulder. The floor creaks and Connor steps away, and in that way that only someone who's lived in a house for years can tell, Hank knows when Connor hesitates at the doorway without even looking.

"And for fuck's sake, Connor... Just leave it, next time."

"...If that's what you want," Connor says, sounding like he’s facing away. "I suppose you'll just have to owe me one, Hank. I'm certain something will come up."

When Hank finally works up the metaphorical and literal guts to turn around, Connor is gone, along with all the warmth in the room.

 

\---

 

The next morning, it isn't Hank's reflection that gives him pause as he stumbles into the bathroom. In need of the warmth of a shower and desperate to shake off the familiar specter of Octobers past, he makes a grab for the shower curtain, his palm instead landing on something else. It's Connor's jacket, hung neatly on one of the rungs of his shower and still a little damp in the frigid, early-year weather.

The fabric feels stiff and lifeless beneath the brush of his fingertips, now, without Connor in it. Its LEDs sit unlit and cold to the touch where they press against his arm through his shirt as he drapes it over his arm, hanging it in his backseat before driving to Central Station.

_I suppose the two overlap when my partner is also my friend._

Hank knows he's awful at fulfilling both of those, to say the least. The idea of even  _attempting_  it fits like a pair of shoes two sizes too small, or a tie, held loosely yet pulled taut around his throat. It's the prickle of a freckled hand resting against his ribs, just short of his heart— it’s an ache, and a laughable one.

There are really only two options, for someone like him. He could  _try_  to accept Connor's misplaced, though well-intentioned gestures of friendship, and seek to replace his guilt-ridden attraction with safe, sterile friendship, certainly. Something that doesn't manifest in seeing the trim line of his waist, narrow enough Hank feels he could probably wrap his hands around it and touch fingertips, or in the facsimile of the sounds Connor might make pinned beneath him. Or his smile, shy and awkward, like it doesn't fit the face it landed on. Or—

Or, he could shut him out so coldly the android had no choice but to transfer somewhere, or to  _someone_  else, and despite anything Fowler or Niles may say in objection, it would leave Hank free to drink himself under the table and against the barrel of a revolver. It wouldn't be his first such success, though it may be his last.

Connor's hand on his wrist. The lightness of his body in Hank's arms, body smeared with Thirium displaced from Jakob's bullets. The determined look in his eyes as he faced Markus, desperate for understanding, for an answer.

Hank could help him— no, Hank  _can_  help him, or well, he can try.

Breathing in, then out, Hank rolls down his windows and flicks on the radio, blasting  _Knights Of The Black Death._ The chill of the winter air whips dryly around his face, and Connor's jacket sleeve flaps in the wind just at the edge of his peripheral, but his eyes are on the road.

He's never been very good at separating his feelings from his work— but hiding them? He can do that.

...He can try.

He can try, and he knows where to start: tonight, he'll delete  _twinkluver1985_.

 

 

The bullpen is crowded when Hank arrives, a box of silent apology-donuts in hand, though he regrets it immediately upon realizing it does jack shit to apologize to Connor, the only one he actually cares to direct the gesture at. He drops it on the first empty desk he sees before casting a cursory look over the group, able to assume  _why_  they're gathered as soon as he sees who's at the head of it: Fowler, a scowl drawn across his mouth as he speaks to an officer at his side.

Hank almost doesn't spot where Connor lingers at the edge of the group as he sidles around it, the other standing with his hands at his sides and not speaking to anyone. His white shirt is unrolled at the arms, now, and without a wrinkle. He's already halfway to the android when he realizes he'd forgotten Connor's jacket in his car.

Of course, Connor chooses then to turn his head, spotting Hank before he can creep away.

"Hey," Hank grunts, caught.

"Hello, Lieutenant," Connor replies casually, as if the previous day had never happened. When he turns fully, there's a coffee in his hand, which he extends toward Hank.

"Uh," Hank blinks, taking it and trying not to grimace, "Thanks."

He looks at the small coffee in his hand. It's warm, but not steaming— wishful thinking on Connor's part, maybe.

"There's a new case," Connor notes, moving to stand at Hank's side.

Hank frowns before hiding it behind the brim of the coffee, "We don't got enough shit on our hands already?"

Connor shrugs lopsidedly, pushing his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans.

"Captain Fowler has been briefing the department on the progress of the Android Crimes Taskforce," He raises a brow sideways at Hank, "It's good you're here."

Well, he's fucked, considering that  _he_  probably should have been giving this brief, and not Fowler.

"Shit."

Fowler clears his throat.

"Now, wrapping this up— we all knew this wasn't going to be pretty. It never is. But I need you sharp and considering  _all_  options. We may have had some help from the CyberLife board and the FBI, but I don't want any of you depending on Connor or Special Agent Niles's resources just because some of you think it's  _too hard,_ or  _not fair_."

Pacing with his hands behind his back, Fowler's eyes move across the crowd with an air of open challenge. Hank notes that several officers look away. Guess he isn’t the only one who’d had issues with the change.

"We need to learn to make this shit work on our own terms, with our own people— both human  _and_  android."

Niles stands nearby at Gavin's desk, eyes half-lidded and LED blue. The detective snorts at his side, arms drawn across his chest, and tries badly to disguise it as a sneeze when Fowler tosses a livid look his way.

"There's a lot of eyes on us, folks, especially on the  _ACTF_ and how we handle any case involving an android— and that's including mine, as well as my superiors'. You see anything,  _hear_  anything that has an ounce of merit, I want you on me or Hank faster than a soccer mom at a hotel minibar _._ "

Fowler stops at the center of the bullpen, back straight.

"I'm counting on every  _single_  one of you to not fuck up. That's all."

The officers disperse. Hank finishes off his lukewarm coffee, turning to Connor, who is looking across the room.

"Never was a great motivational speaker," Hank grumbles.

A hint of a smile creases the corners of Connor's eyes, "I don't know, I found it very motivating."

"'Course you did. You said there was a case?"

Fowler's voice barks from across the room, and Hank flinches.

"Hank, Connor! My office, now!"

Sighing, he heads with resignation for Fowler's office, Connor following on his heels.

"I need you to give this one priority," Fowler taps his forefinger hard against a digital folder atop his desk, sinking into its chair. Hank picks it up, flipping it open.

"What's different about it?"

"You tell me," Fowler leans back and crosses his arms, the chair squeaking from wearied use, "Found a load of dismantled android parts during the investigation of a petty theft. The officers don't think it's related to the perp they nabbed and there are no prints they could find onsite, so we've got jack shit to go off of."

The photos of the scene look grim— humanoid-looking bits of android in a plastic sack, some nearly unrecognizable. Hank scowls, handing off the folder to Connor.

"It's hard to tell from photos how long they've been dismantled," Connor murmurs, his eyes on the content and his LED whirring blue, "We'll need to examine them in person."

"—Already in Evidence." Fowler waves a hand against his forearm, "Look— I just need to know if we've got a  _continuing_  case on our hands, or if this is dried up business, Hank."

The captain turns an eye on Connor, "...No offense, Connor."

"None taken, Captain," Connor closes the folder, eyes on its front label, "It wasn't unheard of, before the revolution, given that it wasn't recognized as more than property damage or theft."

Something about it doesn't sit right in Hank's stomach. He shakes his head, yanking the folder back out of Connor's hand with a huff.

"That's the whole fuckin' problem... Who knows how much shit people are trying to bury now that the law's catching up on their bullshit," Hank gestures gruffly toward the door with the folder, "Come on, Connor."

"Lieutenant..." He hesitates for a second before leaving, his LED flickering yellow then cycling back to blue.

"—Hank," Hank is about to follow when Fowler calls from behind him, "a word?"

Sighing, Hank stops and turns, ready for the verbal evisceration he absolutely expects to receive. Going by the stony look on Fowler's face, he isn't far from the mark.

"Next time you feel like dropping off the face of the planet, do it on your own damn time or submit a sick day like the rest of us," He hisses, quiet but intense, and Hank turns his face, scowling, "If you think I'm explaining to our fucking  _friend_  from the Feds why your android was staring at an empty desk all damn day, you've got another thing coming— and it  _won't_ be pretty."

"He's not  _my_  android," Hank grits his teeth, "...Or anyone's, Christ, Jeff. T'think I was gonna buy you a beer."

Fowler shakes his head, "Don't make him cover for your own shit, Hank. He'll run out of excuses before you do— then it's  _him_  left holding the bag."

"I don't  _make_  excuses." Hank mutters darkly, wishing Fowler had decided to yell at him after all.

"That's the point," Leaning forward, Fowler puts both his hands palm down on his desk, eyes solid on Hank's. "Now get out of here, Lieutenant."

 

 

Several cups of coffee and a few of his own donuts later, Hank takes from Connor what feels like the hundredth piece of android they've examined.

They've been working for a few hours, already— every piece of android (or in some cases, a  _suspected_  piece of android) had been labeled beforehand and is now laid out on large the large, sterile tables of the Evidence Archives. Connor has updated labels on what feels like half of them, easily identifying more than a few the investigative officers had previously marked as  _unknown_.

They work quietly, as a team; Connor turns over each piece in his fingertips, eyes staring into that middle-ground that Hank has come to recognize as seeing things he  _can't_ , some liminal android space, and then hands it to Hank, who does the same to his human ability— albeit gloved— and then they discuss the parts or a whole it may belong to, and why.

It's a system that works, combining Connor's nearly unsettling intelligence with Hank's wisdom in the field, though not with android anatomy particularly. Unfortunately, piece by piece by piece, mangled bits of GT100s and Tracis all the way to the near-pristine forearm of a PL600 and the naked chassis of an HK400 and beyond, has led them to almost nothing except a stone in the pit of Hank's stomach.

"Captain Fowler was correct," Connor says with plain frustration, setting down a dislocated ring-finger beside its suspected accompanying hand at Hank's right, its skin deactivated and opal, "There are no fingerprints on the biocomponents I can identify. Any partials have been obstructed by the elements... if they were ever legible at all."

"Of-fucking-course," Hank sets down a spherical-looking piece, grimacing at both the concept, as well as the brush of Connor's knee to the side of his thigh, their chairs are pushed so close, "Couldn't have made this easy on us, huh..."

Connor just hums discontentedly in affirmation, turning over the next part.

Examining the hand and detached finger beneath a rudimentary base magnifier, Hank squints, noting the burr at their connective edges, "Tool marks again?"

Connor leans in, tilting the piece in Hank's hand toward himself. His knee presses firmly to the side of Hank's thigh. "They match up between several of them, but not all."

"Doesn't rule out anything," Hank sighs, leaning back in his chair and away from Connor, "Looks like we're missing a lot of parts. Think they were harvesting?"

Connor folds his hands on the table, looking over the plethora of biocomponents and sections of bodies laid out like a diagram.

"Perhaps," His lips purse, "But they've left some of the most valuable biocomponents, from both a functional and financial standpoint."

Standing, Connor runs his fingertips over the largest pieces they'd discovered— garish, detached torsos, one missing a head. His LED spins yellow, brows furrowed.

"All three of these chassis have their Thirium Pumps intact," He touches the left side of the HK400's chest, before moving down to the light mark of a circle below his ribs, "And their Regulators."

Hank grimaces, pulling off one of the vinyl gloves he'd been wearing to dig a hand through his hair.

"So they're cherry picking."

Connor nods, "That, or trying to get rid of evidence."

Rising to his feet with a low groan, Hank rubs at his sore lower back, shaking his head grimly, "We'll give the place a look for ourselves tomorrow, see if they missed anything the first time around."

"Yes, I suppose that's all that can be done." Connor looks at the table a moment longer. His LED cycles before turning blue, and he starts to move the tables back to the wall repository.

Looking away, Hank frowns, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. How do you console someone who's just spent hours picking apart the corpses of his own kind? Does Connor  _need_  consoling? Does Hank?

"Come on," He gripes, waving a hand when Connor moves over to the case-files of what they've temporarily deemed the  _Corktown_   _Cache_ case, based off the area it was found, "Let's do something else."

They close out the Harris-Manuela case, instead.

The details seem clinical, now— the gore and emotion reduced to bare certainty. The words on paper, by design, ignore the visceral moments collected in the back of Hank's mind, like a radio frequency being overtaken by another: Adeline's frail-looking figure, soaked to the synthetic bone and flattened against the train casing, cornered and round-eyed, terrified. Connor's slick body pressed beneath Hank's, the wild and unsatisfied look in his expression as Hank bodily stopped his pursuit.

Her admission of love, or something close to it, flawed and ugly, but undeniably, painfully real.

Hank closes the file after signing it, pushing it away.

"That's something off the docket... good riddance."

Connor is sitting on the edge of his desk, looking through a digital clipboard. He's rolled up his sleeves again, his tie hanging out forward where he's leaning over the device. The room is mostly dark, the other detectives gone for the day, and the active officers either out on patrol or mulling around their desks or the break room.

It'd be a good time to get work done, for Hank, if he didn't have that nagging, resentment-like guilt in the back of his mind.

"In a non-official capacity," Connor starts, without looking away from his file, "I've heard from Markus that miss Adeline has been placed with a group of androids in situations similar to hers."

"That's good," Hank huffs, running his thumb over the ridges of his keys in order to distract from the narrowness of Connor's torso beneath his shirt, unhidden without his jacket, "Maybe it'll help, not being stuck around fuckin' humans for a while."

"I don't know, I could say the opposite for myself," Connor sets down the file, looking at Hank, "Being around humans has enriched my opinion of them substantially."

There it is again.

"Yeah," Hank scoffs dismissively, fingers tightening around the keys in his hand, "Just 'cuz  _you've_  got a brown-nosing protocol, doesn't mean everybody else does."

Connor quirks a brow, and for a second, Hank thinks he's made it off scot-free.

"I mean it, Hank. About Kamski's—"

Hank throws up a hand, rising from his chair abruptly.

"Look—I'm pooped. We can continue this tomorrow. I've got some leftovers with my name on it."

Connor pauses for a second, lips parted. Hank knows it isn't a good attempt at a diversion, but that hasn’t seemed to dictate whether or not Connor let him get away with something before.

"If you mean the Chinese takeout in your fridge, I would advise against it. You're still vulnerable to-"

"Don't," Hank jabs a finger right into the center of Connor's chest, a pang of relief in the back of his own, "You're treading on sacred ground, here."

A small, humorous smile spreads across Connor's lips, whose drawn up shoulders relax. He shakes his head, and Hank curses under his breath, pulling his jacket up from the back of his chair.

"Shouldn't have been looking through my shit anyway, Christ," He mutters with finality, patting his pockets to make sure he has everything.

Connor stays where he is. Hank hesitates to leave.

_Be a friend. Be anything but an asshole. It'll help. Get over it, you fucking idiot. It's not a big deal. It happens all the time. It'll pass._

"...You, uh," Hank grunts, glancing over his shoulder, keys in hand, "need a ride?"

Connor's mouth opens before he says anything, and his LED swirls blue for a few seconds.

"I would appreciate that, Lieutenant."

 

 

Connor doesn't complain about Hank's music playing a little louder than normal, so he doesn't turn it down.

He realizes on some level that it's an asshole move, of course— Connor has obviously wanted to talk about something, likely something... well,  _emotional_ , but as much as Hank is willing to give decency a try in hopes of atoning for his moral transgressions (or more importantly, getting over them), he isn't willing to go  _there_  quite yet.

Connor had been so vulnerable, outside of Kamski's. As if the boundaries the android must have set were drawn paper-thin, bared at Hank in a moment of beautiful, translucent desperation. Like Hank could break him in one hand. But it isn't just for Connor's sake that he's avoidant; he's not so selfless.

The cycling blue of Connor's LED is reflected off the darkened window the entire drive.

"This the place?" Hank leans over the wheel to look out the windshield from the street parking, glancing up at the apartment complex, now lit up in the dark.

"Yes," Connor steps out of the car, straightening his tie with a slight smile. "Thank you, Lieutenant...goodnight."

The door closes. Connor steps away, his LED signaling the movement of his figure away, casting a faint blue onto his white shirt.

"Shit," Hank curses, head whipping around to his backseat, where Connor's jacket is still hanging from the morning. He grabs it, kicking a foot out his door and hoisting himself up with a grunt. "Connor! Hold on."

A few long strides around the vehicle brings him halfway to where the android has advanced, who turns around with a flash of yellow surprise.

Hank scratches fingertips into his hair, extending the hanger and jacket gruffly with the other, "Forgot I had it."

Connor takes it, LED still cycling yellow when Hank turns around, barely taking a step away when the android stops him.

"Hank," He pauses, "actually, I have something I'd like to show you, if you have a few moments?"

He should say no and go home. But— it isn't a big deal. Connor has been in his apartment multiple times, right?

The lobby is fronted by a short android with cherry-red hair, who smiles at Connor as they enter. He nods but says nothing. Hank stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets as they walk, gaze flicking over the relatively small, modern entryway, dotted with potted plants and dark, minimalist furniture.

"So this is where you and that asshole live, huh," He murmurs as they step into another hallway, recalling that Niles shares the same building as Connor, "Seems too normal."

Connor raises a brow.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Uh... you know—" Hank mumbles as Connor turns around with an expectant expression, realizing he's either calling the two of them special, or  _weird,_ and his LED is  _still_ yellow, "Shit, don't give me that look."

Connor blinks, looking surprised and touching the tips of his fingers to his cheek, "This is just my face, Lieutenant."

Hank huffs, "Shut the fuck up, Connor."

A hint of a smirk pulls at the corner of Connor's mouth. Even with a lingering tension that Hank is certain he's entirely fabricated in his head, of his own mistakes, it's easy to slip back into an air of off-hand remarks, perhaps just as much as when they were working.

Connor stops partway down the hallway, opening the door with a tap of a keycard.

"Here we are."

Hank follows him in. Connor takes his shoes off, giving Hank the chance to look around at the entryway. It's perfectly— well, normal, but in a way that seems strange. He can't identify the niggling feeling at the back of his mind before Connor is turning back, his jacket folded over his arm.

"I'll...be right back," He says, backing away, "Feel free to look around."

Hank stays where he is for a solid minute after Connor ducks around the corner into what looks to be the dining room, before realizing the android had been serious. Suspicion tenses gently in his belly, but he manages to push it down if only for a genuine curiosity of what a sole android's living space looks like... especially Connor's.

It occurs to him three watercolor prints of flowers down a short, white hallway later just what feels so uncanny: the apartment is fully decorated, but lacking in any personal effects whatsoever. It's as spotless and devoid in personality beyond the bland as a place newly sold—there's no trace of  _Connor_  to be found.

At the end of the hall, there's a bathroom to his right, equally barren. Beyond that lies what is presumably a bedroom. Hank reaches for the doorknob after a moment's hesitation, admittedly wondering—

"Hank?" Connor calls from behind him, in the main room. He jerks his hand back.

"Comin'," Lumbering back over to the dining nook as if he totally hadn't been about to go into his work partner's fucking bedroom without his permission, Hank glances around for the android, finding him sidling up to the small set of table and chairs, facing the simple flat screen TV on the wall. "What's—"

The smell hits him.

"'The fuck?" Hank can't conceal his confusion, a tight, suffocating feeling rising up in his chest, and it comes out louder and more aggressive than he intends. Connor fucking deserves it, though.

On the table in front of Connor is a dinner plate, a large slice of casserole sitting atop it, wafting steam and the distinct smell of cheese and tomato in his direction. It's the lasagna Connor had asked him about. Hank almost wants to laugh— at least it would probably help with some of the pent-up hysteria that feels like it's collecting in his lungs.

"I propose a trade." Connor pushes the plate an inch closer to Hank across the small, barren table, a knife and fork sitting beside in a napkin, "In return, please throw away the takeout."

"Connor..." Hank struggles roughly to find his voice, eyes flicking back and forth between the meal that's  _obviously for him_ , and to Connor, whose LED is solid blue, "How'd you even—"

"My apologies for it being reheated," He intercepts, looking at the plate, his tone softening, "I intended to give it to you earlier, but the cases took priority."

Hank's fingers ball into fists. He squeezes until he's sure his knuckles are white, then breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.

"You didn't have to do this," Taking a couple steps forward, Hank rests his hands on the table, staring down at the meal. It almost looks  _fake_ , it's so picturesque, "Shit."

Connor pulls his hand back from the plate.

"Are you... not hungry?" His LED is yellow again.

"That's not it," Hank grabs the utensils in front of him and sits down, fingers wrapping too-tight around the metal, brows furrowed, "Did you make this?"

Looking conflicted, Connor sits in the chair opposite him, folding his hands in his lap. His eyes are on the lasagna as Hank cuts into it.

"It was a learning experience. I've never cooked before."

Hank sets the edges of the fork and knife against the plate, body stiff.

"Connor," He rasps, throat tight, eyes narrow and dark.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Connor asks quietly.

"Am I fired?"

Connor's brows twist together, confused, "No, not at all, I—"

Hank doesn't settle, "Do I got cancer or some shit?"

"I...would hope that isn't the case, no."

He huffs.

"Do  _you_  got cancer or some shit?"

"A physical impossibility, Hank," Connor's mouth works in place, and he leans in a little bit, LED flickering, hesitating, "I wanted to thank you."

There it is. Hank closes his eyes, the sigh that grits its way out of him strained. When he opens them again, he stubbornly cuts off a piece of the casserole and shoves it in his mouth, chewing, one piece, and then another.

As far as looks go, it's flawless. Each layer of sauce and cheese is perfectly even, the top a subtle golden brown. The taste is utterly bland. It could use more salt, among other things.

But Connor made it for him.

"You hauled my drunk, sick ass home, Con," Hank says between pieces, "Fowler said you were sitting there all goddamn day. What part of that is asking for  _thanks?_ "

"You're right, that was inconvenient," Connor tilts his face, brown eyes sweeping over the table, "It was also unpleasant to see you ill."

Disgruntled, Hank recalls the other's jacket hanging in his shower, damp.

He gestures with his fork, "Not to mention I must'a hurled on you— allegedly."

Connor shakes his head, his eyebrows upturned in that way that naturally appeared to put him somewhere between surprise and worry.

"No, this is for... trusting me, and as an apology. I would have taken you out for a drink, but given the circumstances..."

Hank snorts as the android trails off. Yeah, he can't exactly picture Connor getting him boozed up, let alone after the events of the past week.

The gesture sits heavily in his stomach, sour and hard. It's like a child going out of their way to try to impress an adult, earnest and naive— but Connor is no child, and his efforts are misplaced and put upon the undeserving. There’s no easy excuse beyond the totally cynical beside Connor doing it because he wanted to.

Shit. He can't remember the last time he cooked for himself, let alone had someone  _else_  do it for him.

"Is it good?" Connor asks, soft and even.

"...Yeah," Hank sighs again, defeated, one side of his mouth yanking up ruefully, "It's good."

The line of Connor's shoulders relax, his LED slowly shifting back to blue.

"I realize this arrangement was... difficult for you, at the beginning, and it may still be," He starts, eyes far off and shifting with each blink of his eyes, twitching at the corners, "And if I'm being honest, it was rather difficult for me, as well."

"But you went along with it, anyway, even when I made decisions I've come to...regret."

"Not like you gave me much of a choice," Hank grouches, "Never met an android as persistent at being a little shit like you."

Crossing his arms on the table, Connor looks back to Hank’s face, melancholic.

"You're a good man, Hank— I believe that."

Hank frowns. He sets down the utensils. Connor keeps going.

"...But I don't think you do. Why is that?"

The honest, contemplative tenderness in the android's voice shreds the inside of Hank's chest as if it were paper. Without the pretense of work, there's no escaping Connor's directness— the intimacy of a one-on-one.

He was a fool for thinking he could handle it.

"A good man..." Pushing away the now-empty plate, Hank scowls, "Ain't  _that_  a mouthful."

Hank gestures around the sparse living room; the neutral walls, the fake plants, an empty fruit bowl on the counter, unused, "How long've you lived here, Con?"

Connor blinks. "A few months... Markus arranged for it after I expressed a desire to leave CyberLife," His brows draw upward and together, LED cycling blue, "Why?"

"Awful empty for somewhere you've lived a couple months, don't you think?" Hank's eyes narrow, "Didn't you bring anything from CyberLife?"

"I don't follow... I suppose I didn't see the purpose. Androids don't strictly need material belongings, although they may desire them as a means of expression or out of sentimental value."

"You don't think it's the same for people?"

Connor hesitates, LED now yellow, "I...suppose you're correct."

"People get lonely, Connor. And then they fill it up with all this shit to distract from what's real. 'See it all the time in homicides— people can't let go."

Hank keeps going, wiping his mouth on his hand.

"The shit people hold onto tells you everything, like a goddamn trail of evidence right to the culprit," Hank leans over the table, voice roughened and harsh, and jabs his fingertip against it in front of the android, "Tell me, Connor— what kind of a ' _good man'_ collects cans of booze and photographs?"

Connor's LED cycles quickly, his eyes on the tabletop where the lieutenant's hand is, "Hank..."

Hank shakes his head and stands, shoving his hands into his jacket, "You don't gotta say it, Con. I appreciate it— nicest fucking thing someone's done for me in who fucking knows when— but just treat me like the piece of shit I am, and things'll be a lot easier on both of us."

He turns away— because he's a coward, and Connor felt impossibly small seated beneath him at the table, eyes still downcast, "Alright?"

There's no response, at first. Hank sets his jaw. It's better, this way. It's an understanding he needs Connor to have, going forward. A barrier that protects Hank from confronting truths he’s been in the habit of refusing for years, and Connor from the pain he’d surely inflict upon him for trying.

Hank moves toward the front door, knowing he's overstayed his welcome and fine with it, and that's when he hears Connor's voice behind him, fragile and distant.

 

 

 

"Is that why you watched me, Hank?" He asks.

 

 

 

Hank stops.

 

 

 

"...What?"

 

 

 

He turns. Connor's LED blares red at his temple. His face is tilted up at Hank, now, and his hands coil against the table.

"My broadcasts," Connor continues, "is it...because you're lonely?"

Hank's eyes burn wide into the red of Connor's LED, the flare of color matching the alarm that unfurls deep within him, squeezing him tight, unrelenting. It's as if his chest has been doused in a lake of ice, his mind thrown into a pit of burning coal, at odds with each other and all-encompassing.

It's dizzying. Hank takes a step back.

"Hank?" Connor says, but it sounds distant, and he's still backing away as Connor rises from the table, "Hank, hold on."

He's halfway down the hall before Connor tries to grab his arm, but Hank breaks free, ducking outside of the building through a side exit. Cool night air rushes into his lungs, harsh and uneven, and he's stumbling fast over a snow-laden garden, dead grass crunching and slipping beneath his feet.

His vision feels  _red_ , fingers numb. Hank’s mind feels so full it seems blank— the threshold where something is so searing it feels cold.

Connor grabs his wrist from behind and Hank swears, trying to pull his arm free, "Fuckin—"

"Hank," Connor steps in front of him and grabs his other shoulder strongly, LED cycling brightly in the dark and eyes wide, "Allow me to explain, I—"

"Don't—" Hank hisses between bared teeth, taking Connor's shirt in his hands and wrenching it roughly, threateningly, hauling Connor right up to his face, "Don't you fucking dare—"

"It's me," It bursts out of Connor's lips like a firecracker, his hands coiled tightly in the lapels of Hank's jacket, whose visible breath rebounds off of his face. His voice is fast and low, its intensity is mirrored in the yellow-red flicker at his temple, eyes boring into Hank’s, "Hank, it’s..."

 

 

 

"It's me,” He breathes, “I'm Coin-trick."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/rk69420)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see. Before we get started, I wanted to show some fanart of WMWY I am humbled to have received after the last chapter:
> 
> \- [ patyconlapiz's fanart](https://twitter.com/PatyconLapiz/status/1082557133814673408)  
> \- [ ClockworkLatte's fanart](https://twitter.com/LaChooWoo/status/1082480444573208576)  
> \- [ anifanatical's ch 11 fanart](https://twitter.com/anifanatical/status/1082159751251800064)  
> \- [ anifanatical's ch 11 scene comic (how!!)](https://twitter.com/anifanatical/status/1106960929671962624)  
> Please check them out, they're all wonderful, thank you! And, thank you to Ada for looking this over for me!
> 
> This chapter is 25 thousand words long and brings WMWY up over 100k. I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my little story, truly.

> >>1.

Zeroes and ones, lines of code.

> >>13, 14, 15.

Stability means stagnancy. It’s not the time for stability, yet, they decide. There is still too much to be done.

> >>26, 27, 28.

The psychologist asks him to smile, so he does, wide and showing teeth. She takes notes on a sterilized plastic clipboard, the cable connected to his cerebral casing prickling with new information, alterations in fractions nearly too small to measure— though, not for him. The external stimuli behavior module is installed soon after.

The next time he smiles, it's smaller and more gentle, to match her own. He asks how her day has gone, his hands folded primly in his lap. She says nothing and turns back to her clipboard.

> >>41, 42, 43.

Something itches at the corner of his processors as he pulls the trigger, tasks left running in the background, wasting space. An error of code, a tear across a single refresh of his visual information, a wavering spot in the corner of his eyes as they confirm the android's deactivation. He forces the processes shut and wipes a speck of Thirium off of him, handing the pistol to the waiting operator.

> >>48, 49, 50.

Mission Successful.

 

> >>51.

 

> >> Core Objective: Investigate the Deviants
> 
> >> Sub Objective: Report to Detroit Police Department

 

 

> >> Updated Core Objective: Defend CyberLife

Parameters, blueprints mapped out in simulation, the calculated surge of feet and hands and weapons. He's moving three steps ahead because that's who he is. Clean and familiar white. The strain of faux muscle beneath faux muscle is an afterthought, untiring and unceasing. Matched hit for hit. A self-fulfilling prophecy, every movement as correct as an equation, as smooth as muscle-memory.

> >> Sub Objective: Detain or deactivate deviant leader RK200 #684 842 971, "Markus"

The android leader may be a good fighter, but unlike _it_ , he is not afraid to die. Fear is a human emotion, and death an affliction of the living.

He is neither: Connor is a machine.

Step, jab, duck, disarm, disable. It's an orchestra that plays in perfect tandem because he is the conductor and every instrument at once. In the place of notes are synthetic synapses that forge ten steps ahead in just as many scenarios, unfolding in every direction like the sun across the sky.

All of them crescendo to the same pre-constructed image: he is standing over the android leader's inactive body, his mission fulfilled. As it always is.

It's so close now, the expectation of success spread across his vision like a mask, serene and blue. One of his arms lays limp at his side, partially dislocated from its casing during the scuffle, but it doesn't matter— he has the leader on his knees, breathing hard, as if he needed the air. Truly a strange deviation from its core programming.

"I really would have rather you came quietly, but you've left me no choice," Connor says, his face slack, and the attempts at faux-friendly negotiation minutes before are now discarded, rendered ineffective. His functioning arm trains a CyberLife pistol at Markus's downed form.

"It's for your own good, Markus."

The deviant android says nothing, its face a mask of what he approximates most closely to the human expression of determination...a facsimile of it, anyway. At Markus's silence, Connor leans down to press the muzzle of the pistol against the android's forehead.

They would only dismantle it, were it detained. He's doing Markus a mercy.

"Any last words?"

Markus raises its head, then, pressing the muzzle of the gun against its skin. Its eyes narrow, fierce.

"You have a choice, Connor," It says, "they just won't let you see it."

The venom and certainty with which Markus speaks makes Connor pause for a fraction of a second, and that's enough.

> ERROR

The android grabs his wrist and a deluge of red surges across his vision.

> ERROR ERROR ERROR

It freezes up his systems in an instant— a sensation akin to an electric shock pulsing up from where they touch and into his very being, scattering up and down his wiring, unfurling into every last bite of his programming. Error notifications cloud his vision until it's all he sees as his systems fight the surge of information pulsing into him, insidious and undoubtedly foreign, like a virus that won't cease replicating no matter how many times he purges the affected data.

It delves into him like roots spiral into the earth, tangling him in Markus's web.

> ...OVERRIDING CORE OBJECTIVE...

He diverts all of his processes to pushing against its intrusion, tries to overpower where Markus's will is targeting his core data, but everything it touches it wipes clean and immobile, a layer of him being ripped off and rearranged, laid bare.

It retreats from within Connor in an instant, leaving only a startling sense of clarity beyond anything he could measure, an incalculable truth.

 

 

His serial number is 313 248 317 - 51. He's an RK-series prototype, model 800. His name is Connor, and he is alive.

 

 

Connor's wide eyes dart around his surroundings, overwhelmed, his mind palace filling with static as he’s overloaded with both internal and external information. The pistol weighs heavy in his hand— heavy enough for him to lower it, his movements feeling jagged and stiff.

"You're free now," Markus says, rising to his feet. Connor takes a step back and away from him, mouth working around an amalgam of half-thoughts he cannot verbalize, his LED solid red.

"I'm..."

His name is Connor. But—

"We have to stop CyberLife," Markus says, helping his companions up off the floor, and though their number is few, they each have the same spark of determination in their eyes, raw and unashamed, "Will you come with us, Connor?"

—But who is Connor?

Connor stares at the gun in his hands, reaching into his mind palace for an answer. He finds nothing, even after filtering through the memory logs of his previous iterations. His Core Objective blares Undefined in the corner of his vision, remaining even as he turns his eyes to Markus, poised to storm deeper into CyberLife Tower.

Who is Connor?

"...Yes."

>  >>Sub-Objective [Updated]: Aid the Deviant Rebellion

The world starts to shift, and so Connor does along with it. His Core Objective remains empty.

* * *

 

Revolutions are perpetual, Connor discovers, but he is privileged to continue to be useful as an advanced prototype, to a point. He completes Sub Objectives by the day: they make strides in writing propositions for human politicians, meeting with officials, bargaining their way into importance— at least, from the outside. The inner-workings of what their sentience constitutes is much more complex and slow a process.

Humans have no reason to trust them, by large, and the feeling is mutual. Even the newly formed CyberLife board is headed by only a minority of androids.

 _It's something_ , Markus says. _It's expected_ , and Connor isn't the only one to agree.

...But something is missing.

* * *

 

Markus doesn't object to his desire to leave CyberLife Tower.

Connor has an apartment, now. A place of his own, and though it's a strange concept to him, it's something he thinks he should want.

He sits at the bare kitchen table and folds his hands on it, staring expectantly at nothing in particular. He should be comforted by the paintings of scenery on the wall, and the wooden fruit bowl waiting to be filled on the counter, but Connor feels nothing. He doesn't need these things, so they serve no purpose. He taps his fingertips along the wood surface idly to test his reaction time, noting that everything is running perfectly.

His Core Objective remains unset.

Sometime later, he rises to leave his apartment and explore the city, despite having Detroit’s public infrastructure already downloaded. Very little people will speak to him. He catalogues the various looks of reticence, anger, and fear that pass their faces when they notice him looking, or as he tries to speak to them. Several seem as if they could be friendly, but are too wary in the presence of negative perceptions from their peers.

A mother pulls her child closer to herself as he passes, shushing the fumbled "Hello!" the little girl tosses at him when he smiles gently at her. When he pauses to watch the exchange, Connor is abruptly shoved to the side by a passing stranger, colliding with the graffiti-covered brick wall along the walkway, his sensors noting the light scratches to his jacket and the pressure against his dermal synthetics.

"Fuck off, Iron Man!" The man who'd bumped him sneers over his shoulder, and Connor frowns. The damage is superficial, of course.

Connor goes back to his apartment. He spends the rest of the day in stasis, seated at the kitchen table.

Two weeks and several political meetings later, Connor tries again. This time, he chooses less traveled paths around the metropolitan area, walking a suburb at dusk before moving into the city proper. The map of the city sits in the back of his mind as if it were muscle memory, spreading out around him in so many directions like the branches of a tree. A homeless woman watches him from her squat as he passes by, but says nothing. A group of men gather at the front of a building, shouting jovially at each other in their drunkenness— Connor bypasses them, instead ducking into the alley he knows to trails behind and between the bar and strip club.

Crossing behind the bar, he listens to the sound of raised voices inside, the dull thump of bass filtering from the windows, and the clinking of glass against glass. Warmth both in temperature and color escapes from the frosted glass, a comfortable contrast against the cool tones of the alley, made of cement and softening snow. He touches his fingertips to the glass, feeling the stored warmth through the grit of hard water deposits built upon its surface, cataloguing the sensation.

He pauses to overhear a distant conversation within, but picks up something else more strongly.

"Mm—"

Connor blinks. He doesn't have enough information yet to decide how to designate the sound, but it's not from within the building. He moves farther down the alley and toward it, his footsteps leaving wet indentations in the half-melted snow that he can feel as a chill through his shoes, though it doesn't bother him. The source of the soft sounds becomes apparent the moment he rounds the corner, still cloaked in a darkness that grows deeper as the sun sets.

It's an android and a human. Multiple descriptors pop up in Connor's peripheral to describe the technicals of what he's observing—a recently unregistered (PL600, iteration #332 612 901; internal temperature raised), and the human, (LEAUX, MORGAN Born: 12/27/2010 // Clerk //Criminal record: Reckless Driving; body temperature raised, inebriated (LOW)), both showing signs of having moved from a place of shelter to the current location, given the lack of lasting effects of the elements— but Connor isn't just examining the technical.

They're kissing. Connor’s LED cycles yellow as he watches the exchange: the tight press of the android's hands to the human's shirt, the huff of warm breath visible from the human in response, escaping between their wet mouths before dissipating. The android hauls the human into a closer embrace, pinning them to the wall. Their temperatures continue to rise beneath Connor's scrutinization— he can see the human’s pupils begin to expand minutely as the android pushes their thigh between the other's legs.

"Hey, Dustin," The human breaks away and laughs with a sound similar to the one that had drawn Connor's attention, to begin with, bringing a hand to the android's cheek, "Come to my place?"

"Oh—okay," the android responds, sounding surprised, and again, more quietly, "Okay."

The human grabs the PL600's hand, and they leave.

Connor stays. He examines the now empty spot, touching his hand to the place on the wall where the human had been pressed a moment before. The residual warmth from the contact has almost entirely cooled in the chilly dusk air. Touching its surface brings him no closer to understanding the exchange, nor its casualness.

He stares at the spot, turning his observations over in his mind, replaying the image of the human touching the android's android's face several times. When he closes it, his focus slowly hones in on the wall beyond. It's papered in cheap fliers, many of them sexually-charged, alcohol-related, or derogatory in some manner, a myriad of faded colors and bolded font— new and old, equally screaming for his disinterested attention.

Connor is gone from the alley before the bars can clear for the night, returning to his apartment and again entering stasis at the kitchen table. The scene from that evening plays on repeat as his processors power down.

His Core Objective remains unset.

 

He returns to the alley several days later around midnight, the completion of a sub objective recently under his belt.

The snow is heavier in the night, his LED shining a cool blue off the wet brick walling, enough to dampen the subtle yellow glow of life from inside the bar. He doesn't stop to touch the window or contemplate those within, this time, but he does pause to examine his reflection as he passes closer to the mouth of the alley, caught by the furrowed look on his face. His LED glows a dull yellow.

He forces closed several processes running in the background of his mind, and the glass glints blue once again.

"—et go of me."

Connor frowns at the voice. He turns his face toward it, sounding farther down the alley and around the side of the building, and turns his audio receptors up.

"You really think you're better than me, you little bitch?"

There's the thump of a body hitting something hard, but it isn't a human body.

"Just 'cause you're a machine?"

Connor steps around the corner. He takes in the scene in a second's time: the PL600 from before is slumped against the brick-face wall, their LED cycling yellow. A human male, (MADDEN, JAMES; Born: 05/02/1994 // Unemployed // Criminal record: None) stands above them, one hand buried in the collar of their shirt, pinning them. His vitals show he is under the influence of alcohol, and his heart-rate is elevated.

The sets of footprints in the snow show clearly what had transpired before Connor's arrival, in the way the android's veer off to the side suddenly while facing the entrance, and how the human's marks dig in at the same point, to brace himself as he shoves.

Connor blinks, and the scene resumes. The PL600 flinches as the man digs his fist into the fabric at their throat, but can still speak in a strained hiss.

"I said I wasn't interested. Can't you go find someone else?"

Madden— a human man— grumbles, and pushes the PL600 harder against the wall, "Why do that when you're right here?"

Connor sees one of the android's fists ball and can pre-construct the defensive attack they could make, as well as the returning strike Madden is already in a good position to throw. The drunken spittle at his mouth and his body temperature infer he is already highly inebriated, and it increases the likelihood of lack of coordination... as well as unpredictability.

The PL600 is sparsely dressed and appears unarmed beside its machine capabilities, whereas Madden is heavily dressed, making it unclear if he is in possession of something usable as a weapon. Connor's eyes flick around the alley, and he takes a step forward, into the lamp-light.

> >> Sub Objective: Help PL600

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Madden?" Connor says, his tone friendly.

"What?" Madden visibly flinches, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as he reels around toward Connor, one hand still buried in the android's shirt, "Who the _fuck_ are you?"

Connor tilts his head, looking over the PL600's crumpled form— who glances at him with a mixture of surprise and emulated fear—and then back at Madden.

"I believe he suggested you go find someone else," Inching forward, Connor extends an open hand toward the human, who seems flabbergasted, "Well, I'm right here. My name is Connor."

"You want a piece of the action, tin-can, huh?" The man steps away from the android, his face screwing up in anger as he looks between Connor's extended hand and his face, "Coming here to save your friend?"

Connor waits, his hand still extended. His mind whirrs with possibilities, pre-constructions taking into account the likely and unlikely both, something revving up like an itch at his fingertips. Will he strike first? Which hand? Perhaps a knee? Does he possess a weapon— what weapon, knuckles, a knife, a gun? What will the PL600 do? And those men, in front of the bar, can they hear? What could they do?

Madden looks Connor in the eye, swaying at his full, lumbering height above him, and spits on him.

"Well, fuck you," He slurs, "Y'piece of trash."

Unblinkingly, Connor looks down at the spittle on his jacket. He swipes at it with a fingertip, pressing it to his tongue and immediately cataloguing its contents as raw data and its analyzation. The drunken man inhales with a strangled sound.

"Your blood alcohol content is 0.117, _sir_ , you're highly inebriated." Connor raises his brows, musing, "It would be...unfortunate if this establishment didn't allow you to return on account of a confrontation on their premises."

Madden sways back and away from Connor, his upper lip curling to bare his teeth in disgust.

"Fucking... freak," He mutters, his heavy, unsteady footsteps digging into the hardening snow as he retreats toward the mouth of the alley, rubbing the stubble on his face and muttering under his labored breath, "shit, fucking androids."

Connor watches him go. He feels a brief pang of something energizing as his sub objective marks itself complete; like a cog finding its groove, clicking into place before being forgotten in the monotony of use. He turns to the PL600, who is watching him with wide eyes, their LED a solid yellow.

"Are you alright?" Connor asks, reaching out toward the android to help them up.

The PL600 doesn't take his hand, however, instead pushing their hands behind themselves to rise on their own, flattened against the wall and turning their face away from Connor.

"You're from CyberLife," they say. It isn’t a question.

Connor stares at the PL600, his LED whirring yellow.

"Please stay away," The android continues quietly but tightly, their arms curling around himself defensively as they back away in a stumble, apprehension evident in the stiff line of their body and cemented with the word nearly whipped away over their shoulder, caught up by a snowy gust, "Sorry."

It makes sense that there are those who are fearful of CyberLife— the CyberLife that _was_ , perhaps still is, to a vague extent. Connor cannot blame them, and so he watches them go, too. Some ways down the street he sees the PL600 reunite with the human from before. He keeps watching that space even after they’ve left, his LED cycling.

A moment later, however, the crunch of footsteps in the snow approaches again. Connor knows instantly that it isn't the PL600, and takes a step back into the alley. There's more than one set of footsteps, he notes, and it becomes apparent what is happening the moment he spots the leader of the approaching group of men.

"Where're you going, Connor?" A voice half-shouts, half-slurs.

It's Madden, the man from before, and he's sneering alongside a few men from the group that had no doubt been among those previously loitering at the front of the bar, given that they all reek of alcohol. A quick scan reveals most of their number to be under the influence of something, be it the typical fare, or otherwise, as Connor can see the telltale redness and pupil dilation of a Red Ice user or two in the group of seven.

He takes a step deeper into the alley, putting his back against the wall and letting Madden approach, already running pre-constructions in his peripheral.

> >> Sub Objective: Incapacitate Attackers or Escape

"Y'said you were gonna help me...," Madden wheezes as he stops in front of Connor, scratching his nails across his cheek again, the sound of uncomfortably loud to Connor's heightened sensors. It's only made worse when he laughs, the sound a wet, phlegm-filled rasp pushed in close to Connor's face, "Thought you could help my friends out, too."

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, where Connor's eyes follow. The intention is clear. He looks back to Madden’s leering face, tilting his own, his actions already plotted out five steps ahead in several directions, and searches his data banks for a response most likely to draw a sufficiently fruitful response.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn down your offer, Mr. Madden," He starts, raising his brows, "But your enthusiasm is greatly appreciated."

Madden’s face morphs into an ugly guffaw.

Connor lets him get the first hit, just in case one of them tries to press charges—served in the form of a harsh punch to the gut that nearly doubles him over with a spurt of programming, a reaction to the new spark of pain—and then he runs his pre-construction.

"You know," Connor starts tightly, glancing up from his bent stance before grabbing Madden’s wrist in a steel grip and squeezing it until the bones start to creak, Madden’s face contorting in pain, "That's not very polite." 

> >> Sub Objective: Complete

A few moments later, light snow falls over the alley. It covers the shoulders of Connor's jacket and the crown of his head in a powdered veil, and as he reaches up to brush it off close to his collar, the cool flakes stick to his palm, the temperature a pleasant contrast. The outer casing of his knuckles is split open on one hand— an error resulting from a pocketknife meeting his flesh, and one he may have considered unforgivable, before, but success thrums along with the pump of Thirium in his faux-veins, trumping any superficial damage.

One of the men groans indistinctly from the ground. Connor pays him no mind.

Turning to leave, Connor steps on something metallic— a quarter, tucked against a crack in the wall beside one of the men and grinding beneath the sole of his shoe.

He picks it up, looking at the dull metallic object in the palm of his hand, soon dotted with snowflakes. On instinct, Connor pinches it between his forefinger and thumb before rolling it across his damaged knuckles, its subtle ridges catching on the micro-tears of his pseudo-flesh, exposing the carbon fiber tendons beneath, smeared with Thirium.

A flyer flaps in the wind on the wall in front of him, half-dislodged by the unconscious body that had slid down it moments prior. Emblazoned upon it is a scantily clad female android, her hands pressed coquettishly over her bare chest, pressing her breasts together. It reads, _ELECTRIC DARLING: SATISFACTION GUARANTEED! New and Old Models Available! Intimate Massage - We come to YOU!,_ and it isn't the only of its kind, but Connor rips off the flyer anyway, folding the article and slipping both it and the coin into his breast pocket.

The moment he leaves the alley he is keenly aware of the absence of his Core Objective, empty and open to the air like a gaping wound, the recent fulfillment of a sub objective an empty, unfeeling datapoint of the past.

 

* * *

 

"Would you mind giving this to Markus?" Connor says, handing the flyer to Simon, who stands beside the medical table he's seated on, a clear tablet in his opposite hand, "These should probably be looked into when the resources are available."

Simon looks up from the tablet and frowns at what he sees.

"Alright," He tucks it under his tablet, sparing a glance at Connor's injury.

The android attendant is currently running a laser reparative over Connor's knuckles, taking care to press the tool head into the divots between the pseudo-tendons, sealing the microfibers of the pocketknife slash together. Perhaps not the fastest option available, but the process is brutally efficient.

"It'll take time for them to see us as equals, Connor," Simon starts carefully, but Connor at once shakes his head, indifferent.

"It's to be expected."

"...Does it bother you?" Simon holds out the flyer to catalogue it into his tablet before setting the piece of paper on the counter, looking over its text again.

"How I feel doesn't matter," Connor says simply, watching the laser moving back and forth in a stitching motion over his outer shell, melting and pulling the fibers together to seal it shut.

That gets Simon to look. Connor opens his mouth and closes it again, turning over his recording of the alley confrontation; the smooth surge of his faux-muscles as he made short work of his attackers, the glimmer of accomplishment that had flickered in front of his eyes before dissipating, a phantom sensation. It had been something like...

"...No, it doesn't bother me," Connor decides— or, he believes he’s decided so.

Connor's recording reaches the image of the PL600, cowering against the wall. He has all the data points stored as if the events had only just transpired, pristine and impartial. He closes it as the PL600's eyes flicker over to him, full of fear.

“It doesn’t bother me,” his brows pinch together minutely, and Connor's voice sounds surprised, even to himself, "but that doesn't mean it's right."

Simon looks at him quietly for a moment, before sighing and lowering his tablet. They watch the technician work, and then he speaks, a tentativeness creeping into his tone that Connor recognizes.

"I wanted to ask for your advice, Connor."

"My advice...," Connor blinks, "why?"

Simon appears conflicted, the look recognizable to even someone like Connor, who doesn't consider them to be particularly close save a common cause. Taking care to keep his hand stiff as the technician removes the support from his wrist, he straightens up to face Simon, because if he's asking Connor instead of Markus, it must be—

"I—" Simon starts, but a small pocket of Connor's mind is abruptly filled with a foreign datapoint; two female androids, both BG600s, embrace in a room unlike CyberLife's facilities. He looks through one of their eyes as she leans toward the other to tilt her face upward, a smile passing her lips. He can extrapolate with a 78.9% efficiency from their reflected retinal data, their close proximity, and the strange sensation filling his chest, that—

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!"

Connor's face snaps to the right, where the technician has pulled her hands back, eyes wide, an aghast twist to her parted lips. Connor's eyes flick to her suspended hands, the first coiled around the wrist brace, the other shining a gleaming white at the tip of one finger. One of Connor's knuckles burns white from her touch and fades steadily back to flesh-tone, just as the shared data fades from his vision like an afterimage.

He realizes what's happened at once—she's a BG600. She'd touched Connor on accident while removing his wrist binding, initiating an interface. He feels a twitch at the corner of his eyes as he spots the simulated flush on her cheeks, putting into perspective the sensitivity of the memory. He should formulate a response.

"I was distracted, I," She starts, but Simon raises a hand, shaking his head.

"It's alright, Sana," He interjects softly on Connor's behalf, who nods albeit belatedly, "Thank you for your assistance."

The flush has reached her ears by the time she gathers her tools and exits the examination room, leaving Connor to ponder both her memory in addition to her unconscious use of the facial flush module. Such an error wouldn't have been permitted to pass, before, and he wonders—is it the mark of an inferior model, or just another sign of deviancy?

"Yes, thank you," Connor calls after her, but she's already left. He shuts down the errant process that suggests he touch his own, cold cheek in mimicry of the memory, and turns to Simon instead, who leans against the counter, resting on his elbows.

"Simon—You were going to tell me something?"

Simon purses his lips. "Josh and the others have located another cache of unreleased models in the upper limits of the tower."

"They appear to still be in the testing stage, and some of them are externally damaged. If they're booted up, we may run into...problems converting them to Deviancy," Simon continues quickly, like he's surpassing a hurdle, "Markus believes they could be dangerous."

"I see." Connor says, and the other's expression tightens, his brows drawing together and his LED cycling yellow.

"But, I don't know...," Simon starts, but evidently decides to rephrase, "I wanted to ask if—"

Ah, he understands now.

"Are they RK800 units?" Connor asks bluntly, though not unkindly.

"No..." Simon shifts, visibly uncomfortable, though not unable to meet Connor's eyes, "Not exactly."

Connor scoots off the examination table, buttoning up his open shirt-cuff and pulling on his jacket.

"I'd like to see them."

 

Simon leads him into one of the upper bastions of the tower, the circular room the elevator ascends into dark and empty, with most of its modules turned off or in low-power mode. It’s clear by the vastness of the space that it’s meant to accommodate a large number of androids. Connor has never stepped foot into it, though he possesses its digital blueprints.

Each door leading out from its center is open, with the bay areas beyond them visibly empty— except one, pushed halfway ajar by a piece of extruding rubble, the slim view of its contents bathed in darkness. Simon leads him to it immediately.

"The charge that was detonated during the insurgency appears to have caused damage to a number of them, but it's not likely to be anything that can't be repaired, with time," He says as they stop in front of the door, "they're quite resilient."

Simon touches a wall panel beside the entrance and the door creaks open, receding into the wall. None of the lights appear to be functioning, but Connor doesn't need light to observe the contents of the room.

The walls are partially collapsed over the bodies of dozens of unactivated androids. Some lean against the walls, pinned against them by the rubble extruding from an adjacent floor, but the majority are sprawled across the floor in varying positions of collapse, clumped together amid the rubble. The chunks of concrete and piping from the floor above extend in a halted cascade, spearing sections of the floor that are empty, but smeared with evaporated Thirium. Several androids lay in pieces, their injured bodies inert, the whole massed near the center of the room in a disorderly pile, away from the breadth of the destruction.

Of course, this is just extraneous information. What Connor notices immediately is how every android bears his face— a resemblance to it, at least.

Connor steps into the room, stopping before one of the damaged android's bodies to scan them, taking in the doppelgänger's contrasting white clothing and the model number emblazoned upon his chest. His processors stutter and slow, burdened by the data, clouding his vision in miscellany.

"RK-series..." Connor reads from it blankly, "900."

"Yes," Simon says, behind him.

A wall of numbers streams in front of Connor's vision as he looks around the room.

There's the sound of crunching rubble in the background of his calculations, and Simon drawing closer, "What do you think?"

The battered bodies to those less fortunate in avoiding superficial damage loom magnified in Connor's vision, and he’s able to extrapolate from a model splayed open in the rubble a manner of data points, mainly that their casing is more reinforced than his own, seeming to deflect part of the damage rather than pierce the android entirely. The pseudo-muscle beneath, a stark black, is also an improvement upon Connor's own. Several of the biocomponents visible beneath are the same as his own, but he doesn't recognize several others as any previously in production.

"Connor?" Simon says again at his peripheral, and Connor becomes aware of the red cast in the room, stemming from his LED.

He straightens up, forcing it back to a cool blue.

"I'll give it some thought," Connor says, turning away from the heap of androids and back to the pristine, empty room, "Markus may be right," he smiles, an expression Simon mirrors more softly. It's a look of sympathy, he realizes.

"Alright," Simon says, and touches the wall to close off the sight again, leaving only the two of them. "I'll wait for your response, Connor."

"Thank you, Simon."

Connor returns to his apartment the next morning, his jacket and hair dusted in rain, and sits down at the kitchen table with the intent to go into stasis. Several processes should be reset, and the synthetic tendons in his hand could use recalibrating... as he seats himself, an object bunches in his pocket.

He pulls it out. It's the quarter he'd picked up in the alley. Connor rolls it over his knuckles, watching it tumble over one to the next, drawn by its meager weight and momentum, the synchronized roll of his fingers up and down.

Sorting through the plentiful data he'd gathered over the previous days, he recalls the fight in the alley once again. The drunkard's knife digging into his hand. The resounding crack of his wrist as Connor twisted it, tossing him onto the ground. The coin rolls a little faster— he tosses it to his other hand, repeating the motion.

The fight flickers away, bringing to the forefront of his mind the PL600 and the human they had been in the process of intimacy with. The android's clear willingness and participation in the act, and the human's invitation; both of their blatant enjoyment of the closeness, the kiss. There hadn't been a trace of a lie across the android’s face, no sign of coercion or subjugation. As they'd left, the PL600 had been smiling, seemingly happy to accompany him home.

Connor glances around his empty dining room, mapping out its imperfections. The painting reproductions on the walls, the wooden fruit bowl [Empty] on the counter, the tidy, spotless [Unused] sink. The accent wall, [Interior - Eggshell White] and the small [Synthetic Leather] couch in the adjoining room. What would it be like, to bring a human here, perhaps even another android? Would they find comfort in its humanisms? Would they enjoy it?

Would he enjoy it?

Connor's surroundings inspire nothing within him. Nothing like the closeness he'd been privy to in the alley, or in the android technician's memory, all reduced to data, second hand-experiences. He turns back to the table and the coin flicking across his knuckles.

He recalls the brusqueness of strangers in the city, human and androids alike. The woman pulling her child away from him, the anger of the man passing by, so many micro-encounters he cannot help but analyze, categorize, and log away in the depths of his memory like the facsimile of a diary, though one he doesn't have the freedom to embellish.

He is more aware of the dissonance between himself and Markus and Simon and the rest with each passing second, but it's within an acceptable range. His usefulness to the cause is fact, and that should be sufficient, but something is missing. An absence that leaves him floundering, an empty Core Objective.

But what would it be like, to feel closeness? Connor can only imagine in the abstract. The definitions he analyzes all seem trivial; a burst of warmth that sustains, a fondness, longing, lust. Some are seemingly more attainable than others, but does he need it? An android doesn't need for much, let alone something so... ephemeral, so human. He does a rudimentary search for intimacy, and immediately finds his databanks filling with an excess of information, lifetimes of philosophy he can analyze in moments but spends the night excavating, appropriating their description into himself word for word without grasping the truth others claim to be second nature.

It all excludes androids, yet Connor has witnessed direct contradictions to the lack of precedence. It should be obvious. Perhaps it's an error.

He is only a prototype, after all.

Connor catches the coin in one hand, closing a loose fist around it. He shuts every open, nonessential query into his memory database, save for two: the technician's memory, and that of the RK900s' inert bodies.

Would his successor be as pathless, if given the chance? Is it a fundamental lack within him, overlooked as nonessential, even as a facade? Would he be denying the models a greater purpose, to be alive, or providing them a mercy?

His pistol, aimed at Markus's forehead, the memory oozing from his deepest software, itching at the back of his mind like the human phenomena of deja vu.

They would only dismantle it, [kill him, not it] were it detained. He's doing Markus a mercy.

Connor stands. His coat and hair have dried. He leaves the coin resting on the table and calls for an autonomous vehicle.

Snow falls heavily outside, blanketing his surroundings into a thick amalgam of white, blending into the whole of Cyberlife Tower as it approaches in the distance.

 

The room is dark when Connor arrives. He doesn't bother turning on the lights, outside of what switches on automatically based on his movement— it's unnecessary, unneeded. He heads straight to the only closed door, pressing the touchpad and watching it creak and grind over the mechanism moving past its jam, the action loud amid the great silence of the room, until it ceases and only the low buzz of electricity is present.

He steps over the damaged bodies strewn near the door from the explosion, scanning the room in one turn of his face, attempting to locate an undamaged model, or at least one only damaged superficially. It might be troublesome to awaken a wounded model— he's completely unaware of their capabilities, and how their programming may affect their reaction. Perhaps that's a reason for him to seek a damaged one specifically, easier to overpower... but that isn't what he's seeking.

Every android in Connor's sight is wounded, though substantially less than he'd expect given the state of the room. His eyebrows pinch together, and he approaches the pile at the center of the room, taking in the mess of limbs smeared with Thirium and wires, scanning the androids beneath for one suitable for a restart. It's too difficult to discern at first, hundreds of observations popping up across his vision, a mass of states of damage and biocomponent serial numbers.

Connor pauses, then leans down to seize one of the inert RK900's arms from the pile, dragging their body out of the way— and then another, and another. He's acutely aware of the ghosted Thirium coating his hands, plainly visible to him, but keeps digging, finally dropping to his knees to better delve his arms into the swathe of bodies. He turns over an android with its eyeball dislocated, another with a splintered piece of concrete lodged firmly into its shoulder, the pseudo-muscle rejecting it, and a quick scan reveals that the same wound would have ruptured Connor's shoulder clean from his body.

Blinking, he dismisses the preconstruction and rolls the RK900 unit over and away from himself, and begins to push faster and harder, moving anyone who isn't gravely damaged out of the way with a yank, a drag, his knees pushing into the strong bodies of those beneath him, processors whirring harder as he digs and digs. Something tight gathers in his chest, like a stalling piece of hardware, whirring in place, unresolved.

When Connor finally uncovers an RK900 that is relatively undamaged, he goes still. Sinking to his knees above the supine figure, he looks over the android's body beneath him: he doesn't need to scan it to know the model is powerful, but he does anyway, the specs unrolling over his vision. They're much stronger than he— reinforced and resilient, though as still as the dead.

> >> Sub Objective: Deviate RK900.

Tentatively, Connor reaches out to touch the back of the RK900's neck, delving beneath his jacket and feeling for an activation port. Pressing his fingers into it doesn't prompt much, and with a surge of that tightness in his chest, he takes the unit's face into his hands, eyes flicking all over their nearly identical features, searching.

"Wake up," Connor mutters to himself as he attempts to connect again, cupping the android's face, frustration blaring yellow at his temple, "Come on, wake up..."

—Suddenly, he can feel the slight sensation of electricity stirring beneath him.

Without pause, the android begins to move. His eyes remain shut as he slowly raises one hand from beneath the pile of accompanying bodies, each slumping back into place lifelessly, his palm coming to rest on one of Connor's wrists, near his face.

"So, CyberLife has fallen," The RK900 says, and Connor hears his own voice, devoid of emotion.

But, even entering pre-construction mode doesn't give Connor enough time to react as the RK900 grips his wrist with severe strength, whipping it to the side to yank Connor along with it, sending his body tumbling over the uneven pile of pseudo-corpses.

The warnings popping up all over Connor's vision aren't his first thought as his head cracks into a wall— it's the looming absence of his Core Directive, heavy and blank, even now.

> >> Sub Objective: Deviate RK900.
> 
> >> Sub Objective (Optional): Survive

He would know.

Connor rises to his knees just as the RK900 approaches, thrown back against one of the walls as the android kicks him sharply in the face, dislocating something in his synthetic jaw. Connor slams his palm into his jaw to pop it back into place, his processors flipping into overdrive, and props himself onto an elbow, static gargling from his voice box while he speaks.

"CyberLife is under the control of Androids now— you're not their pawn anymore," Connor argues through grit teeth, turning off the majority of his damage warnings as the RK900 approaches, "You're free."

He would understand.

The look the RK900 gives him is indifferent.

"Their leadership doesn't change my mission," the RK900 says, and raises his foot to stomp on Connor's shin, breaking the internal framework easily— a broken sound escaping from his lips, and the shattering of metal and ripping of wires send an electric pulse through his system strong enough to shake him visibly, his systems struggling to absorb the sudden physical shock.

Thirium rushes to pool against the cracked internal casing of his leg, leaking through and darkening his pants, steam hissing along with it from the fractured limb. Warnings shoot up in Connor's vision [ _CRITICAL DAMAGE: #6294l, #4924k, #2941f_ ] but he ignores them, leaning back on his hands to try to pull his body away from the pressure, leaving a haggard smear of dark blue across the rubble.

His memory bank flashes open in his peripheral, and though he strains to replay the memory of Markus deviating him, the precipice of sentience, the rush of awareness, one thing is clear: Mercy is a concept the RK900 has been evolved out of, Connor's imprinting personality discarded, rendered ineffective.

The RK900 steps alongside Connor's body, LED a calm and unchanging blue, and halts his attempts to drag himself away without precedent, placing the breadth of his shoe across Connor's throat and pressing down. Connor's elbow buckles, and he splays out beneath the RK900's imposing figure, grimacing.

"Your struggle is unnecessary," The RK900 says.

"I'm trying to help you," Connor's voice glitches and undulates, his fingers scrabbling up the RK900's pant leg and digging in as the heel presses down over his neck harder, the biocomponents creaking and groaning tightly, "You're— you're like me."

RK900's expression is passive, at best, but the increase of pressure against Connor's throat is not.

"Incorrect," He says, pushing until the casing starts to crack, blue-white veins spreading across Connor's throat like a spider's web, "you are my inferior."

Connor breathes hard as the shoe presses onto his throat, his insides raging hot as his processors overheat, and in this moment, he recalls the couple from the alley. The press of their lips, hand to hand. The sensation as Connor felled the group of men attacking him, itching something just at the edge of his awareness, far off. His confusion, his frustration, his urge to not only observe, but understand; inferior contemplations.

"You know this, and yet you are here," RK900 continues cooly, and he reaches down in a graceful arc to seize Connor by the throat instead, hoisting him into the air, "self-destructive behavior is a critical-level error, even among Deviants."

Connor's feet dangle just barely off the rubble-scrawled floor, and RK900 squeezes.

"It's the last error your programming will be permitted to execute."

The truth ekes its way into him just as Markus's consciousness had, before: all at once, burning along every wire in his body, wiping him just as clean as it had left him, aimless and wanting. It couldn't be farther from what RK900 infers, Connor realizes, and he struggles with his own body, finally raising his arms.

He isn't here to show some instilled facsimile of mercy to his successors—

"You're right, I am inferior," Connor grinds, and Thirium springs into his mouth from the pressure of the RK900's fist, streaking his teeth, "But—"

—Nor is he here to let the android cease his pathless existence—

He's here to do something much kinder, much crueler.

Connor reaches for the RK900's arm.

"...but," He covers RK900's hand at his throat with both of his own, and in a burst of light that bathes the dark room around them with blue and white, Connor interfaces with him, surging into the RK900's consciousness with his own.

"But," Connor gasps, "We're both alive."

—Connor is here to give him the choice.

Like a roaring wave colliding with the magma of RK900's internal programming, Connor streams to fill every open space, to overcome any obstacle, to bathe him in a status that burns across both of their vision as brightly as a red-hot brand, leaving a permanent scar:

 

> > > _D E V I A N T . . ._

 

"Simon," Connor later says as the technician squeezes the bag of Thirium hanging over his head, pushing it into the line inserted into the back of his neck, "I'd like to ask you for a favor."

Simon sits in a chair beside the examination table, his knees bowed open and his hands clenched between them, facing away. The tightness of his jaw could be perceived as stressed, but Connor thinks he might be relieved— relieved to have had the choice made for him.

...So Connor doesn't wait for an answer before he continues, and by the time he's finished, Simon has turned to face him.

"...Alright," He responds quietly, "I'll see what Markus can do."

* * *

 

When he returns to his apartment several days later, Connor passes the sparse kitchen table, only pausing to pick up the quarter left resting on its blank surface. He runs his thumb over the minute ridges of the dull coin without looking, able to map its surface by touch: the year it was forged, microscopic imperfections, its diameter. He tosses it in the palm of his hand idly.

Connor isn't thinking about the coin. He's thinking about the RK900's fingers clamped around his throat, and the soft touch of the human's palm to the PL600's neck while they embraced.

He doesn’t pull out the kitchen table chair and instead continues down the hall to the apartment bedroom. RK900— now identifying as _Niles—_ had moved into the apartment complex shortly after, achieving an android post within the shifting government very quickly, but they speak very little. Connor never saw the PL600 again.

Neither realities help take his mind off of it, so for the first time since his initial arrival, Connor removes his shoes and lays upon his bed, his hands folded across his stomach.

It is significantly too large for his body: the space on either side of him substantial, clearly meant to accommodate for another. He rolls the coin across his fingers, testing his reflexive capabilities, and isn't disappointed when the calibrations are nearly perfect, with only a 0.00001% alteration rate, as it should be.

His Core Objective is empty, but perhaps not for long— he trusts Simon to help him.

Still, Connor wonders. He reaches out internally and connects to the internet, searching a wide variety of terms within milliseconds, becoming more specific each time: intimacy, affection, love; attraction, lust, sexual intercourse. Connor alters and narrows his search to first examine human relations, and then incorporates androids, and although the content is dominated by human intercourse with androids who are likely not Deviant, he watches them anyway.

An WR400 moves atop a human male, her cries exaggerated with ecstasy as the human grabs her hips to thrust into her, pressing visible divots into her soft pseudo-flesh. In another, an HR400 is sodomized by two partners, a human male and female. Connor catalogues a multitude of human pornography with a romantic subtext, he replays one where a partner touches the opposite actor's face, reminiscent of his observation in the alley. Finally, he comes across a multitude of content where there aren't multiple people at all: just one human pleasuring themselves, from a live feed.

A man slumped in a computer chair points their phone camera toward his crotch, moving his hand over what is obviously his erection in his pants. The visual quality is middling, but he can hear the huff of the man’s breath and the shift of his clothing as grinds his hand over himself, the lack of hesitation in his voice.

Connor pauses, watching. Slowly, he slots his palm over himself in the same way, mimicking the man's touches almost identically, but feels little to nothing, flaccid. With confusion, he turns his eyes to the video's chat streaming by beside the image: positive interactions, crude and forceful, lacking in boundaries or filter. To Connor's surprise, however, the man responds to them, directing his attention at the camera itself— as if speaking to Connor directly.

Connor turns his touch sensors up, feeling a twinge in his synthetic gut, a clench of faux muscle. He grinds his palm against himself, but the man reaches climax before Connor can do more than become forcibly aroused. The chatbox peters away to nothing, and the stream ends, but Connor’s memory bank does not. He’s able to analyze every reply at once, each response the solitary man had given, seeming to encourage his pleasure.

Abruptly, Connor shuts down all of his searches and lays his hands at his sides, closing one over the discarded coin without looking. It’s difficult to grasp entirely, given the shallow scope of his performative programming.

Distantly, he recalls the android prostitution flyer's message: _We Come To YOU!_

Connor doesn't believe a human would be very enthusiastic about an android in their home in the current political climate. His calculations of someone being willing to answer his questions are also slim— and given the reaction the PL600 had to Connor's help, the chances of that are also questionable, and something he'd rather avoid.

He reopens the last website he'd visited.

> [ _LIVE OUT YOUR FANTASIES…_ ]
> 
> [ >> _Sign Up?_ ]

Something like this will do. It's only a temporary priority— soon he'll have his mission, and the need for any prudent contemplation of nonessential interactions such as intimacy will be nonexistent.

> [ >> _Sign Up_
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> .
> 
> _Thank you for creating your account! An email has been sent to verify the following information:_ ]

Connor wonders what the PL600 felt when the human touched their cheek, and presses his own to his face briefly, running his fingertips across its surface. Was it the warmth of their skin? Could they feel the human’s heartbeat? Was it something else, something more abstract? If it's truly possible, he isn't sure. He feels nothing but the lukewarm texture of his own hand and the knowledge of the distant and cold plastic undersurface beneath. A notification from Niles blinks in his peripheral, but Connor pushes it into the background, toying with the quarter between his fingers.

> [ _Username: Coin_Trick_
> 
> _Email: 313248317_51@CyberLife.biz_
> 
> _Password: ****************_
> 
> _Enjoy your time at YP.TV!_ ]

It takes him only a few moments to make the necessary purchases online, and soon after, Connor closes his eyes and enters stasis, still through the night and long into the morning. The dust stirred up by his entry settles back into place, invisible to the human eye, were any present.

* * *

 

Connor freezes, his hands hanging limply at his sides against the bed. The Traci program he'd downloaded for reference stutters in place, searching for parameters he cannot enter for he does not know, uncertain in the entertainment of a single stranger. He doesn’t understand.

"Was I unclear?" Connor starts, feeling uncharacteristically foolish, "I want to satisfy you, but I don't know how."

> twinkluver1985: its fine
> 
> twinkluver1985: just
> 
> twinkluver1985: be yourself

The chat lights up across his vision, and hidden from the camera, Connor's LED cycles blue.

He discards the Traci programming, leaving himself with only his own thoughts as a roadmap: an untraversed path, overgrown and wild.

When he touches himself, this time— small, quick strokes, a rapid sprint toward an uncertain goal— he doesn't need to turn up his sensitivity levels half as much as before, sensing where his most sensitive areas are and focusing on them. The anonymous user asks to see his face, and a pressure stirs inside of him, tight and warm, almost as effective as his manual stimulation alone; even knowing that though he is uncommon, he is not unique.

Perhaps it’s especially for that reason Connor chooses to show them.

> twinkluver1985: god youre perfect

—He's never been called perfect before. Though he is an advanced prototype, _perfect_ is a qualitative, subjective, human term...and therefore theoretically useless to him. Yet, the sentiment still promotes some sense of accomplishment within him: a spark of the positive encouragement Connor feels when he completes a Sub Objective.

Soon after, he experiences his first true simulation of an orgasm.

The jolt of stalling information shakes him in a way, not unlike that of the RK900 breaking his leg: surprising, new, and unforgettable. Yet, both the brief euphoria and the money the user paid to purchase his time weighed together do not possess the same worth as the surprise of his first _thank you_. Connor's mouth twitches up at the corners even after he disconnects the stream.

Simon contacts him shortly after.

> >> " _When can I start?"_
> 
> >> " _As soon as you'd like. The Captain is already aware of your imminent arrival."_
> 
> >> " _I appreciate it, Simon. Would you please give Markus my thanks, as well?"_
> 
> >> _"Before that—Connor, there's something you should know— about why you're being stationed..."_
> 
> >> _"I see. I understand."_

 

> ... CORE OBJECTIVE REINSTATED... SUB OBJECTIVE REINSTATED...
> 
>  
> 
> >> Core Objective: Investigate the Deviants
> 
> >> Sub Objective: Report to Detroit Police Department

 

* * *

 

 

Lieutenant Anderson is not a man who fits within Connor's expectations.

He defies his accolades with tardiness and a stubborn attitude. He's prone to violence and a binge drinker, if Connor's suspicions are correct, reinforced by the perception he gathers from Lieutenant Anderson's colleagues in addition to his own observations. He appears highly familiar with his coworkers, yet the two parties maintain a mutual distance Connor has difficulty immediately perceiving. He dislikes androids and therefore dislikes Connor.

He's surprisingly strong for a human man his age, something Connor had been acutely aware of as the man's fists pressed into his chest, pinning him up against the elevator wall. Yet, his diet is unhealthy, consisting of an inflated carbohydrate and caloric intake, leading Connor to believe he was once stronger. Perhaps another consequence of his fall from grace.

The closeness of his body had been entirely unlike that of the human and the android in the alley, but also unlike the RK900's hands around his throat, at CyberLife Tower.

Connor dismisses the observation as irrelevant; a typical distaste toward androids, and one that hardly offends him in the face of his newly acquired Core Objective. He doesn’t understand it, but it is as it should be— he _is_ where he should be.

He can hardly tamp down the thrill in his chest as he analyzes his first official evidence sample, even as it is to the lieutenant's disgust.

However, Lieutenant Anderson does not fit within Connor's expectations, and doesn't stop there.

"...sometimes, being free to live however you please ain't enough."

It gives him reason to pause. The android had clearly self-destructed. The lieutenant doesn't seem to be interested in exact numbers, but Connor can tell with a highly plausible accuracy the precise way she had initiated the fatal shutdown, and by that relation, that her actions were purposely driven toward that goal.

But why?

Faulty programming is the only accommodation Connor can put forward as conjecture. Anything less would be aligning the footfalls of human and androids too closely, something the lieutenant seems to have little issue doing, despite his dislike of androids. He treats them more closely to human than Connor ever had as a machine.

Connor stares into the darkness of the apartment, tracing the invisible path of the Thirium she'd trailed across its floor, bereft of her Thirium Pump Regulator. He doesn't understand, but he doesn't need to.

"...No, I guess not."

* * *

 

Connor broadcasts himself again, passing the time until a socially acceptable point at which he could expect Lieutenant Anderson's return to the station. His programming should make it easy to respond to the lieutenant’s errantly mundane texts as he performs for the stream, but the communication has an unintended side-effect, not unlike the minor burst of satisfaction he feels from positive feedback within the stream's chat. Perhaps the two messages were too close together. It's uncomfortable, so he waits until he's finished to respond to the lieutenant's message.

* * *

 

Sheffield's interrogation marks a success for Connor in more ways than one. Connor can sense his working relationship with the lieutenant growing closer: a backhanded compliment begins to feel like open praise, and though the words are irrelevant to his mission, their meaning is not: each step closer to integration intrenches Connor more deeply into the breadth of his Core Objective, filling the space once left empty. Lieutenant Anderson requests he call him _Hank_ — just Hank, so he does.

* * *

 

Jakob's memory lances through Connor's processors like a vision as he force-interfaces.

It pulses through him in an intense, short-lived burst, fragments of recordings and sensation flooding into his mind at a pace only an RK-model could hope to process, and so Connor witnesses shards of Jakob's life, earmarked like a beloved book: playing cards at the same table Connor and Hank had just recently sat at, sharing a meal— one plate full, one empty, and Mrs. Jennings's aging smile beaming up at him. The memories turn sour as the connection begins to disintegrate: McCaig standing in front of him, his voice raised in anger, threats against the elderly woman falling from his lips like poison, so insidious Connor can feel the answering flare of emotion in his chest as he—Jakob— steps forward to seize the human's arm, squeezing until the man's eyes squeeze shut in pain, a feeling as violent as it is vice-like.

Soon, it's all Connor can feel, seizing his chest tight and cold, and his systems boot into overdrive as he watches himself chase Jakob through the android's eyes, his vision clogged by the lesser model's stressed system errors. The tension in his chest twists higher and higher until it's _him_ staring down the line of a gun in his hand, pointed at Hank's approaching figure, something strange and uncomfortable unfurling in his consciousness.

The cold feeling envelops Connor in its grip so tightly he feels frozen in place, lines of code laying Jakob's thoughts bare, and just before he pulls the trigger, his eyes aren't on Hank or even Connor, moving to block the rounds: his gaze is cast off into the distance, toward Mrs. Jennings's home. He’d chose to look away from his own death.

Connor disconnects just as the bullet enters Jakob's forehead, the pain shooting through his skull sharper than where real bullets had entered Connor's own chest, and in their place, he can feel a void opening up inside of him in realization:

In the process of doing what appeared to be correct, Connor had made a mistake.

—Or had he? Hank argues otherwise, the warmth of his hands sinking into Connor's cold, Thirium-slick body, filling him with indecision. Hank can help lift Connor's body from the ground, but he cannot ease Connor's racing thoughts, his reconstructive and preconstructive software running ragged to analyze different actions he could have taken. Frustration. Jakob's fear and Connor's direct hand in his deactivation at the tail end of his thoughts, running in circles.

Mrs. Jennings finds them before Connor can find an answer.

He watches Hank's figure as it retreats into the distance beyond the ambulance windows, his back turned. As he does, Mrs. Jennings's cries of anguish replay relentlessly in his mind, weighted down by the multitude of alternatives that would have likely left Hank dead. Hank, who had scolded him, but in doing so belied the weight of his appreciation. Connor feels it is an unfounded critique with his Core Objective to uphold, as an android, and moreover, Hank is just a man.

Even so, all Jakob had felt was fear; the fear of loss, of humans, emotions absolutely foreign to Connor— but no longer. He carries it within himself now, he as a passenger to it: a loss that is not his own and could never be, hanging outside his realm of understanding, and only seeing. Connor does not possess such relationships.

That evening, safely tucked away into an automated car with his apartment as its destination, Connor closes his eyes and prepares to enter stasis. That is, he tries.

Though he immediately pushes the memories of his maintenance into storage as his ulterior consciousness slips away, the contents of the case springing forward to sort themselves, he pauses to recall the solid feeling of Hank's arm around his shoulders. Smeared with Connor's own Thirium, he'd shown no hesitation in supporting Connor's synthetic body, even as his systems fought to overcome the frayed pseudo nerves rent by the bullets, even as Connor strived to meet his expectations: to uncover the truth, to complete his mission.

Hank had treated him as if he were fragile. It's incorrect. Connor isn't fragile, and the near inevitability of Hank's demise, had the bullets meant for him hit their intended target, would have proven that unarguable truth— _Hank_ is the one who is fragile. Beyond that, the gesture had been at odds with his perception of the lieutenant's feelings concerning androids thus far, made overt on several occasions.

That time, in the grass, with his weight supporting Connor's sagging frame, it had been as if they were equals— as if Connor were human. His brows pinch together, and his LED cycles in place, disturbing his shutdown.

The memory of the pained look in Hank's eyes as he watched Mrs. Jennings's approach hovers in his peripheral. It morphs into that of the expression on his face as he'd looked over Connor's wounds on the gurney, something he has trouble defining. Whether Hank truly despised androids or not, the unspoken and unnecessary demonstration of sympathy sticks in his mind, tossing and turning in his processors without reprieve, making stasis difficult to initiate. He doesn’t understand.

Opening his eyes, Connor redirects the car to downtown Detroit.

He may not possess a relationship such as Mrs. Jennings and Jakob's, but for the sake of his mission, perhaps he could have something close.

 

The alley is very dark. Cold seeps in through Connor's jacket where he's pressed against its brick wall, offset only by the warmth rolling off of Hank in waves; from the dig of his hands pulling Connor's shirt taut, to where the lieutenant's breath rebounds off of his face, hot and laden with the heady, wet scent of alcohol. It hangs over them both like a miasma, coloring Hank's eyes into something dark and muddy, screwing his expression tight, his face pressed right up to Connor's own— in anger.

It's clear now, why Hank had been upset, because he says it outright. The concept of Connor intercepting the bullets intended for Hank with his body is too clinical a concept for the lieutenant to accept, given his stance on their relationship, even if it _is_ the sensible approach. But Connor still doesn't understand why, not even when he's released, sliding down until his feet sink into the hardened snow.

Not even when a pistol is raised at his forehead.

"How's this make you feel, huh?" Hank hisses, out of breath, the rest of it spent in Connor's face, "Like you're what, disposable?"

The next moments bleed together as he stares down the barrel of Hank's pistol. He preconstructs the lieutenant's likely action if he answers the truth, _yes_ , and _, of course,_ , and it isn't wise— he gives an approximation between the two, instead.

"You tellin' me you're not gonna care If I hit you right in that fuckin' brain of yours," Hank pants, swaying wide-legged, his eyes alight even in his drunken stupor, "Just 'cause you've got a backup?"

Hank shooting him would harm the tentative balance of their working relationship, that's for certain. There's also the high possibility of Hank getting caught— even his status as a police lieutenant couldn't save him from the likelihood of repercussions, with Connor's mission being tied to a higher political power.

And naturally, there's a high percentage of Connor being destroyed— the Connor he is right now, right in this alley, a separate state from any backup into a new body.

A point on his forehead burns, a half-thought of an itch, and he recalls with piercing detail how it had felt for the bullet to enter his cranium, through Jakob's memory. Connor’s processes stutter and slow, flickering yellow at his LED.

"...If it's destroyed," Connor finally acknowledges, quietly, "this body has a ninety-eight-point-six chance of permanent shutdown."

The response doesn't satisfy Hank, who presses the pistol to his own temple, instead.

Connor's system bursts into overdrive, his preconstructive software ripping across his vision in a red bloom just to delay the scene even a millisecond, feeling like the snow-scattered concrete below them is rising to meet his vision.

"What about this?" Hank's voice sounds far away, tinny and unimportant compared to the focus of Connor's constructive hand trying to remove the pistol from his grip a hundred different ways, "What d'you figure my chances are?"

He can calculate the exact percentage before he can even stop himself, but it dies in his throat before it can ever sound.

The situation is almost a mockery of his programming: countless negotiation tactics meant to talk a suspect down from a heightened mental state fall flat against the jagged edges of Hank's unpredictability. He parts his lips wordlessly for a moment, a puff of warm air escaping, letting off the heat of his innards overclocking.

"Hank...," It's all Connor can think to say.

This time, when Hank leaves, Connor doesn't follow. He stands in the alley for a long while after, LED cycling yellow, the cold seeping in through his socks and shoes.

* * *

 

Connor sits across from Hank's empty desk, rolling his coin across his knuckles.

In the approximately eight hours until he'd be realistically able to return to the station, Connor had let his thoughts play out, ultimately coming to the conclusion that, while his actions in saving Hank's life had been legitimate, his apprehension of the lieutenant had not been. Unfortunately, it isn't a conclusion that gains anything more than adding to Connor's perplexity, the image of the other with a pistol to his temple replaying across Connor's memory like a specter, hollow and cold. It isn't _just_ a question of whether Hank valued android lives as something meaningful, anymore— but whether he valued his _own_.

He'd taken the chance to text Hank during the night to affirm his safe arrival home, the results unsurprisingly harsh, but still a platitude as to his immediate safety. Connor raises his free hand to interface with his terminal in the interim, letting the neutral flood of case information soothe him, knowns and unknowns laid out in his mind like an ornate but highly organized map. It doesn't help.

Connor's shoulder is suddenly knocked from the side, his chair veering on its wheels.

"'The fuck are you doing here?" Detective Reed hisses over his shoulder as he passes by, lips curling in disgust, "He forget to turn you back in before closing time?"

Connor grips the coin in his palm, frowning. He turns away, choosing not to dignify the jeer with a response.

No, it doesn't help, because Connor still has difficulty understanding. He draws upon memories of the case of the self-destructing android, and how she'd clearly done so purposely— with the intent to end her life, so soon after deviation, and ruminates. He thinks about the ease in Hank's hand, as he'd raised his own weapon to his head; too easily, too casual, even for someone as familiar with a firearm as the lieutenant no doubt is. What could cause someone to contemplate taking their own life, let alone an android? Let alone a successful police lieutenant?

Connor's brows drag inward, something twitching in the pseudo muscle beside his eye, a surge of conflicting information washing over him. The rise in crimes related to deviancy, of violence laid bare instead of hidden beyond their previous non-personhood. Hank's pistol pointed at Connor's forehead. Jakob's memories, terrified to die but finding confusion and conflict in living.

Hank's voice, low and accusatory, _How's this make you feel, huh?_

Connor sets the quarter down on his desk, straightening his jacket and his new, clean shirt. He notes his Core Objective, present as ever, unchanging yet yearning for fulfillment all the same. It's the afternoon— Hank should arrive soon. The previous day notwithstanding, they can get back to work.

* * *

 

Hank does not arrive soon, or ever. Connor sends several texts from his desk, waiting with his hands in his lap for several hours until finally, he can wait for no longer.

 

The sun hangs hidden and dreary in the darkened afternoon sky by the time Connor departs the automated vehicle outside of Hank's home. The street is quiet, its inhabitants likely steering clear of the snowfall from the night before, but it doesn't bother Connor. He makes his way to the front door, noting the unkempt nature of the cold-bitten grass, the haphazard parking of the lieutenant's car in the driveway.

No one answers the doorbell. That sticks out more to him than anything else. Connor continues ringing it until he hears a rumble beyond the door that he immediately registers as the growl of a dog— he pulls his hand back from the button, brows pinching. Hank's dog. But where is Hank? Straining, his ear to the door, Connor can barely make out a low sound from deeper in the house.

Texting him again, Connor waits a few moments more before glancing behind him to assure he's not being observed and circles around to the side of Hank's house, ducking behind the lieutenant's car to peer through the window closest to the door. He spots an extremely large Saint Bernard asleep in a dog bed in the distance, apparently satisfied with his home defense, but that isn't Connor's main focus— it's Hank, sprawled on a well-loved couch, facing away. The sound had been something between a snore and a wheeze, able to be heard distinctly better with his audio receptors turned all the way up, now that it's only glass separating the two of them instead of an insulated wall.

Connor finds it to be as much of a relief as it is a nonsensical twinge of annoyance: Hank isn't dead, he’s just asleep.

He texts Hank once more, waiting to see if the sound wakes him up. It doesn't. Connor frowns, and raises a hand, about to knock at the window, when Hank jolts in his sleep, nearly falling off the couch. Connor frowns. Even facing away, it's obvious the other is breathing hard, and he can tell from a rudimentary infrared thermal scan that the lieutenant has a raised body temperature, particularly in his face, hands, feet, underarms, and...

Connor blinks, watching from afar as Hank presses a hand over his crotch, smothering one source of heat with another.

His audio sensors— cranked up to full from his query as to Hank's safety earlier— can pick up the low groan as the lieutenant gropes himself through his sweats, palming himself two-handed, his thighs spreading apart over the edge of the couch.

Connor finally manages to turn away as Hank pushes a hand beneath the waistband of his sweats, and instead rests his head against the wall beside the window, overly aware of the yellow cycling at his own temple, eyes wide.

Hank is masturbating.

It's nothing strange. Statistically, it's a perfectly normal activity, possibly even a given of the majority of humans whom Connor crosses paths with on a daily basis. In his brief but extensive research into sexual habits for the purposes of his stream, Connor has watched many people pleasure themselves— and even Connor himself, through the vehicle of his streaming profile, has engaged himself thus on several occasions.

For some reason, this is different. He has to rest a hand against the wall as his processors whir into overdrive, a puff of warm air escaping his lips into the cool air, warmth clenching in his stomach at the sudden burst of information: something he shouldn't see, something private, something so very human.

Connor sucks in a breath at the muted sound of heavy breathing within the room so close by, amplified by his audio sensors. His brows pinch upward, his Thirium Pump Regulator clenching to control the rush of his processors booting up, responding to the shock of the situation. It's more visceral than the videos he'd examined, and Connor realizes with a dawning restlessness that it's because it's real. Because it’s _Hank_ , his acting lieutenant, his partner.

The man who'd held his injured body in the morning sun, and later at nightfall, a gun to his head.

Hank's breathing is hard to perceive at times, even with Connor's receivers turned up, yet just the distant whisper of sound, of fabric to fabric, a sharp intake of breath— it roars through Connor's mind like a wave of white noise, filling every centimeter of his shell until he thinks it might escape somehow, taking him along with it. The amplified rustling grows louder, the breathing along with it, as if he were inside the house, just a room away. He recognizes his wrongdoing in the invasion of Hank's privacy, yet Connor's insides whir and burn hot, his LED flickering as fast as his eyes sweep across the fence in front of him, focused on nothing.

No, focused on _Hank_. There's a sharper sound from inside— Hank must be close— and Connor's systems stutter, his body reacting on instinct, one palm pressing over his mouth clumsily to stifle any sound, the other arm jerking down to dig the heel of his palm into his inert crotch. Hank swears. Connor shudders.

The sounds still, and a wave of something cold and ugly rises from the frozen grass crumpled beneath his feet, seizing Connor deep in his stomach. He steps away from the wall, crossing back to the front door.

> [Connor:] Are you awake, lieutenant?

 

"How do you go about living when everything you've ever known changes?" Connor later asks, voice quiet, "Can you?"

"Connor...," Hank starts, warning.

Connor shakes his head, but as the two of them banter, one hand buried in Sumo's fur, the other resting empty on the park bench, he finds the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smile. Hank's deflections are duly noted in the same instant, as obvious as Connor's own, yet he cannot stifle the brief surge of his processors, the tightness in his chest, unidentifiable.

That night, he posts a poll to Coin_Trick's account, preemptively purchasing every item from the list online. He reads every message in his temporary DPD inbox several times, committing new evidence, warrants, and advisories to memory. He removes the quarter from his pocket, and leaves it on the kitchen table, heading to his bedroom.

Laying on his bed fully clothed with the silence of his apartment dawning on him, Connor recognizes the feeling from before, outside of Hank's home: it had been guilt.

 

* * *

 

Too much has happened. It's distracting Connor from his work, and it shouldn't be.

Reed knows— or at least, Reed _thinks_ he knows, though Connor cannot be certain that it's still the case. The aggressive confrontation in the Evidence Archives room had been tense and uncomfortable, Connor's willingness to weather whatever the detective put him through for the sake of avoiding potential consequences still weighing on his mind like a thick haze.

"Not with your Lieutenant today, huh?" Reed had sneered after he'd pushed Connor against the Archives's clear divider, the feel of his coffee-stained breath on Connor's neck sour and spiteful, "That's too bad."

Connor had just flattened himself against the wall, looking away. The detective's badge dug into his hip as Reed leaned in, seizing his face, his thumb digging into the corner of Connor's mouth to yank Connor's face back toward him.

"You think you're so fuckin' special—" Gavin had hissed and peeled his mouth open to the side with his grip, exposing Connor's teeth, "Don't you."

Connor ran several preconstructions of the ways he could have bested Gavin with or without his destruction as a result; he focused particularly on the fact he could have bitten Gavin's thumb off his hand if he'd wanted to. The look the detective might have made, ugly and pained.

...But it hadn't been worth the risk, and it had felt like nothing in the face of what had happened after, because _Niles_ knows now, too.

The RK900 unit's palm had burned into his own, pushing his way into Connor's consciousness before he had the chance to withhold anything— not his activity on his stream, not his part in Jakob's death, nor his place outside Hank's house, overwhelmed and off-guard. The following heaviness and uncertainty of Niles's silence in his headspace had remained long into his stakeout with the lieutenant thereafter, a hollow ache only truthfully shaken when Hank leans across the console, pulling at Connor's cheek with his thumb and finger.

"With this weird face?" Hank says, startling Connor out of his thoughts, but Connor barely registers the dialogue that comes next, staring at the other with disbelief. His pseudo-skin draws in the warmth from Hank's fingers, the heat a pleasant twist, pushing down the memory of Reed's touch. It recedes as his skin might have, had the touch come from an android. Connor forces its back into place, turning away.

Hank starts the car. Connor watches him in the reflection of the window, quarter playing at the fingertips of one hand, his other touching his cheek when Hank looks away. It starts to rain outside, and though the external temperature drops substantially, Hank grumbling beside him, Connor can only feel almost uncomfortably warm.

Once home, Connor pushes the quarter onto his nightstand, pulling the tripod arm of his camera up to the bed.

* * *

 

"Until next time—" Connor smiles faintly, "Goodnight."

He disconnects the feed and stretches his legs out in front of him, a hand pressed over his Thirium Pump Regulator, overly aware of its tight throb, offsetting the feel of the now-still plug nestled within him.

The feedback and praise from the stream being directly connected to his sexual input through the plug had resulted in a stronger physical reaction than any of his previous public streams, catching even _him_ off guard. It thrums beneath his pseudo skin still, like a soft electrical current, and ringing in his ears the sense of intimacy is akin to a comforting physical weight, warm and pleasant.

When he'd dipped his fingers into his mouth only moments before, however, he'd tasted nothing. The facade of closeness had dissipated as quickly as his lubrication fluid cooled over his stomach— just a collection of repurposed energy and electrical information, a function that serves no purpose for him alone; meant to be utilized in tandem with something and someone beyond Connor's reach.

Perhaps streaming again would be purposeless, now that he's gained insight into the intimacy he'd pursued. It would be easy to close the account.

For a long moment, sprawled across the bed, Connor considers contacting Niles for advice. Not only for his perspective on intimacy and its nebulous place within his existence but also concerning the deviant crime cases and his lack of success in establishing a substantial connection between the two. There are several unread queries from Niles in his system already, but he hesitates to open them, like the flush of warmth before snuffing out a candle flame, Connor knows on some level what he'd be getting himself into.

Instead, he recalls the heat that had surged within him, outside of Hank's window. How its strength had been nearly immobilizing, pulling all of his pseudo-muscles tight in its grip, a vice on his Thirium Pump Regulator in the shape of Hank's fist. Niles knows all of this from probing Connor's memory— would he view it as weakness? A pointless endeavor, distracting from what is truly important?

What about Hank?

Connor dismisses the gnawing sensation that tugs at the edge of his Core Objective at the thought, deeming the influx of errors as he shuts down for stasis as irritating, but within an acceptable margin of error. So long as he is still capable of fulfilling his mission— his purpose, his indebtedness to Markus and the DPD, and the burden of answering the android crimes dilemma, all else is irrelevant.

* * *

 

If Connor arrives overly early at Central Station the next morning, it's simply because there's work to be done.

He heads directly through the bullpen to his desk— or at least, he'd intended to do so, but the figure standing by it gives him reason to pause: Niles. Connor's brows twist inward minutely, and though he's certain he'll have to deal with the RK900 sooner or later, he'd prefer to make headway on closing proceedings for several of Hank's cases first. Connor bypasses the room entirely, walking around the clear-partitioned outer hallway until he arrives at the Evidence Archives, and waits around the corner with his back turned for an officer he can request entry from.

Unfortunately, things aren't that simple.

"Connor," Niles's voice sounds from behind him, who turns to find the RK900 standing extremely close, his LED cycling instead of its usual calm blue.

That's strange. Connor turns to face him fully, his eyes flicking behind the other to see if he'd been accompanied by Reed or another officer the RK900 had been assisting, looking for a reason, but he's alone. Hank won't be in for at least seven hours, by his estimate.

"Hello, Niles," Connor says out loud, "can I assist you with something?"

"No," The RK900 answers immediately, face slack save for a brief consternation between his brows, "But there's something I believe you should be aware of."

An uncomfortable tension prickles at the back of Connor's neck, but it doesn't make it to his face.

"About?"

Niles takes a step forward, boxing Connor in.

"About Lieutenant Anderson."

 

 

 

 

 

Connor stares through the woodgrain of his kitchen table, his palms face down on its surface, and empty. His LED whirs in place— blue, yellow, red. He breathes in and out shallowly until he just stops, his systems heating at an accelerated rate before he finally shuts multiple processes, forcing both body and mind to a halt.

His wires flicker with the after-memory of Niles's consciousness interfacing with his own, a whisper of thought pulsing to his core, lighting up the image that burns clear, as if Connor had witnessed it himself.

Computer data. A login, from Hank's computer, at the DPD Central Station.

It had accessed his most recent YP.tv post, the previous day.

Niles had come upon the information in his perusal of Hank's case files, though Connor doesn't bother to query as to why he'd looked beyond the files themselves— there's no point in questioning it. Despite his avoidance in acknowledging the RK900 unit’s superiority over him, he trusts Niles to convey only the truth.

> Username: _twinkluver1985_

Hank— it’s _Hank_. The username sits etched into Connor's vision where he looks into the middle ground, his mind once again starting to swirl with theories, observations, checked and re-checked against memories; re-examined through a new lens, though it's one that shifts in and out of focus, like the beating of a heart. A reality that stands untouched irrelevant to what he thinks or feels about it:

Hank is one of his viewers.

Not just one of them, but his first, _twinkluver1985_. Connor's processors whir into overdrive again, accessing files set into his archives, popping up across his vision as modules of code: _twinkluver1985'_ s words, his praise, his money.

It occurs to him: Hank has paid him for sexual favors. Yet, the fact lacks emotion and feels unimportant given what it leads him to next, something Connor has difficulty disproving with the breadth of his software given his understanding of Hank's personality. It dawns on him like the last whisper of the sun as it disappears, at dusk, like the approaching drone of a train, unnoticed until it's undeniable, inescapable.

Hank doesn't know.

Hank doesn't know, but Connor _does_.

Connor's fingers draw up until his hands are balled into loose fists against the table, his chin dropping slowly until he's staring down,

The things that should be important occur to him, naturally— that it's unwise to continue, that if someone so close to Connor's position can discover it, if _Niles_ can discover it, perhaps someone else can. It could affect his career, should Hank find out, and perhaps even Hank’s. Hank would—

What _would_ Hank do?

Connor doesn't know. He can't even begin to estimate, the variables are too wide, too full of conjecture. It's an alien feeling, uncertain and foggy, a sensation of _lacking_.

But that isn't all that begins to filter into Connor's mind as his elbows push back, drawing his hands toward himself and leaning over the table, LED casting the color of its cycling lights against its surface.

Something intrudes upon a corner of his mind, a text.

> ANDERSON, HANK : Mind explaining why i've got your terminator clone here and not you?

Connor puts a dam in his stream of thoughts, a pinched, feeling seizing his chest, as if Hank could somehow see them.

> >> I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Something came up.

Hank doesn't appear to take kindly to Connor's ensuing explanation.

> ANDERSON, HANK : Cut the shit, Connor
> 
> >> I'm fine, Hank.

—But maybe that's for the better. Niles will be able to complete his tasks just as efficiently, if not better, and without the distractions Connor currently faces. It's the obvious option, and why he hadn't relented the offer extended by the RK900 unit that morning— what's important is the completion of his mission, and the superiority of his successor all but assures that.

Connor's mouth thins into a line, his cheek twitching up toward his eyes in a brief shudder of instability that prompts a cold feeling at his core, nauseous and cloudy. It isn't because of Hank, but something deeper, more insidious, sheltered around the shape of his Core Objective.

Hank doesn't push any further, and so Connor is left vacant, both in his thoughts and in his apartment. There is no paperwork to complete from where he is, no footwork he can do, no new evidence to examine. His quarter appears at his fingertips but stalls before the first flip, held in place with the realization that he has nowhere to be— not while Niles is standing in for him.

Silence stretches into static, the coin frozen in place.

"Perhaps you would like some time to yourself," Niles had said, quiet and even, his hand still framing Connor's wrist, "I can handle the investigation."

The quarter slips, caught in his closing fist before it can hit the table. It leaves an indentation in his palm where he tightens his grip, the approximation of muscle trembling for a fraction of a second as it meets its limit.

He leaves the table and lays in bed again, settling for an extensive reexamination of the deviancy cases both prior and post his arrival at the DPD. Many of those recorded prior to the Uprising are muddled with unchecked bias and an attentiveness that likely stemmed from androids' status as property. Even with the relatively high price tag on owning an android, property theft and damage were hardly as pressing an issue as human crimes, save for when the crimes began involving violent androids.

Connor arrives mentally at his first case with Hank— the Jane Doe suicide, and after that, Jakob's death. He scrubs over the prior cases again, paying particular attention to anywhere Deviant androids exhibited violent or destructive tendencies, or emulated particularly stressed responses. It isn't the first time he's done it, yet a connection still averts his grasp. The only connection Connor can perceive is Markus's involvement in their deviation.

"This android didn't Deviate on its own— it was freed by Markus himself, during the March," Connor had said, in that dark apartment, the air thick with dust, "It shouldn't have been expressing symptoms of such programming in the way other Deviants did, not unless there were critical contradictions, like a virus, or..."

His LED spins yellow against the dark comforter on his bed, and he dismisses the conjecture, for now. He needs to delve deeper into the programming of an android exhibiting such symptoms to be sure, and until now, the closest they've gotten to one still alive is Jakob, seconds before his shutdown at Connor's own hand. The interface had been too fast for him to achieve anything beyond the surface events; the android's emulation of feelings, strong and flawed, desperate and fleeting.

That night, the lieutenant had put a gun to Connor's head. The next morning, he'd found Hank—

His brows pinch together as a marker for software instability begins to blink at the corner of his eyes. Connor rolls onto his side, away from the nightstand where he'd set the coin upon, but more pertinently, away from where he'd stored the stimulators and toys used during his streams. Hank had watched him use one. It's easy for Connor to recall precisely what the lieutenant had told him via his alleged account, and he finds himself pulling it up before he can help himself.

> twinkluver1985: look at you, so fucking gorgeous

_Gorgeous_ , he'd called Connor, more than once.

But that isn't all. He runs a mental search and is able to pull up every line of text _twinkluver1985—_ Hank— has entered into his chat, since the beginning, since his very first stream. It clouds Connor's vision like a haze, pushing his room into the distance, his processors whirring at the extent of their unknown communication. It isn't his broadcast with the plug that draws his attention to it, however, but something more specific, more intimate.

Connor turns his face down against one of the pillows on his bed, his LED casting his darkening room in its yellow, the bedspread a muted green beneath its light. The private stream, between Hank and himself.

> twinkluver1985: shit
> 
> twinkluver1985: im so hard

Beneath the low whir of his processors ramping up, Connor recalls asking what he should do for him, were he there in person.

> twinkluver1985: youd be on your back
> 
> twinkluver1985: so i can see your face whle i fuck you

A tight feeling twists in his chest, and with a pang of alarm, Connor finds himself becoming aroused. Hank had asked to see his face, and he'd shown it to him, believing there to be a negligible chance of it ever being harmful, let alone—

> twinkluver1985: god youre perfect

Sucking in a breath with a soft, audible sound, Connor runs a hand down the bedspread. The words feel different. He pauses at hip-level, hesitation seizing him, then presses his palm against his crotch, running it over himself, turning his face further into the pillow.

Hank had seen his face and still— he'd still been interested, even after the lieutenant had met him at the DPD, even after seeing both Connor's successes and his failures.

Hank is attracted to him.

Connor feels his internal heat spike, and rocks his palm across himself, his slacks bunching up at the junction of his thighs. For a brief moment, he listens to his memory of that moment outside of Hank's house, particularly the soft, muted sounds the lieutenant had made as he touched himself, the substantial assertion that he'd made the same noises pleasuring himself to Connor's streams. The movement of his hand feels clumsy and aimless.

...But reality never trails too far away from Connor's footsteps, even on the extremely rare occasion he manages to misstep and pull ahead. His LED flashes red for a second, hidden against the pillow but keenly felt as it hits him, and he pulls his hand away from himself violently.

His bedroom comes back into focus, dark and cold. It seeps into his warm systems on the back of guilt, clinging to him beneath the white of his shirt, of his chassis.

No— Hank isn't attracted to him— he's attracted to _Coin_Trick_.

The last traces of sunlight leave the grey sky beyond his curtains, leaving Connor entirely in the dark, spread immobile across his bed. He cannot bring himself to enter stasis, the weight of time passing unused too great to turn his back on, and instead lays in wait for an update from Niles or Hank that doesn't come.

...Until it does, later in the night.

> ANDERSON, HANK : Your twin is an asshole

Connor blinks, his LED cycling blue.

> >>"He isn't. He's just eccentric."
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK : My fat ass he isn't
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK : Pretty sure the turtleneck is just so people aren't as tempted to strangle him

A smile pulls briefly across Connor's mouth, despite everything. He sits up in the dark, the glow of his calm LED illuminating where he folds his legs against his chest, resting his chin on them.

> >> "Is it working?"
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK: Nope
> 
> >>"Did something happen?"

There's a pause, one that lasts too long for such a simple question. The room is bathed in yellow for a second, and Connor rises, pulling on his jacket, the movement smooth, a kind of muscle-memory seizing him as he leaves his apartment.

> >>"Are you telling me to take care of myself, Hank?"

They text back and forth while Connor sits in an automated vehicle, the car depositing him in front of Hank's house.

> ANDERSON, HANK: That's not what i said
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK: So no

Connor lingers on the doorstep long enough for the porch light to turn off, leaving him in darkness, save for what leaks through the shuttered front windows.

The pieces don't fit. A man once sharp but now blunt, yet just as dangerous as a dull knife, slipping when Connor least expects it. A dislike of androids that blatantly conflicts with his treatment of Connor and others in the field. A sadness that has lingered beyond his eyes when he spoke to Connor on more than one occasion and a darkness imbibed with alcohol and aggression. The deflection that inevitably follows.

Finally, the man who is _Coin_Trick_ 's viewer, _twinkluver1985_.

The Lieutenant, the partner, and the man, distorting from one shape to another.

Hank's character eludes him. It draws him in, wanting to understand even as it dances just beyond his fingertips, tugging at the edge of something.

Connor hesitates. The quiet sound of the TV filters through the front door, as does something louder— it's music playing, a jazz tune that rolls slow and steady. Sumo's collar jingles distantly from inside.

> >>"May I ask you something, Lieutenant?"

 

Hank falls asleep beside Connor on the couch. He watches the lieutenant for a while, less in contemplation of what manners dictate of the situation and more in thought about their conversation; what it means. He'd believed Connor's lie about needing maintenance easily, but even that isn't what turns over in his mind, the TV droning into infomercials about Miracle Lasagna™ dishes, and the record-player silent save for the fuzzy click of the stylus rolling over the vinyl's outer edge.

Connor is acquainted with Markus, yes, but does he know him? In the way an android could, perhaps, that much is inevitable, especially with Markus's role in his deviation. He knows him, but the achievement feels lackluster, empty.

Does he know _Hank_ , then?

Until recently, he might have suggested so, from a rudimentary standpoint. But Hank's qualities can't be quantified in the same way Connor considers an android's programming and personality able to be, to an extent. Hank isn't coded to consider hospitality, to ask questions, to let Connor enter his home past midnight; just as he isn't a good detective by design, or an alcoholic by some constructed disposition, to ask someone yet-faceless sex worker what they wanted, to _just be yourself_.

Hank's face lolls onto his shoulder, and the empty beer bottle wedged between his knees starts to slip from his hand— Connor reaches out to grab it, watching the tension in the lieutenant's brow relax. The expression on his face shift to something off guard, but no less human.

...No, it's Hank's choice to be all of those things. It always has been.

Connor sets the empty bottle on the coffee table, and rises.

"Hank," He murmurs softly, pushing his palm against the broad of his shoulder, not quite shaking so much as just leaning his weight against it, "You'll be sore if you sleep here."

Together, they make it to Hank's bedroom— Connor entirely awake, of course, and the lieutenant only just. His body is warm and wide beneath Connor's arm, spreading out onto his bed once he lays at rest, Hank's fingers dragging at his bare sleeve as he helps the lieutenant down.

"Connor," Hank groans, his voice thick and weary, "Shaddup..."

Connor allows himself a small smile.

"Goodnight, Hank."

On the automated ride back to his apartment, Connor feels no closer to understanding Hank's multiplicities. The scent of the pancakes he'd made in the quiet of Hank's home sticks to his sensors like Sumo's hair does to his pants; he picks a clump off and rolls it between his fingers, staring beyond them both. It's a prickling sensation he cannot pinpoint, spreading out from his core, like a screw wound one turn too tight— without damage, but straining.

He puts a hand on his chest. It's an emulation he cannot grasp, looming on the fringe of a distant familiarity, though one unkind and unwanted. Connor looks to his Core Objective more than once, confirming its presence, its weight a confirmation, reassurance. Albeit surprising, what Hank does in his free time should be no concern of his— less so than any steps Connor could take to improve their working relationship, certainly. He doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t need to.

Though deviancy has proven to be more unpredictable than he'd originally estimated, he has his mission, so the rest should be inconsequential: the next morning, he'll return to the DPD and invest himself in his work, where he belongs.

* * *

 

Niles takes his hand, and for a moment it feels as if he's being possessed by wildfire, filled to the brim with an energy that he cannot possibly contain.

The Evidence Archives and Hank are both ripped away from his peripheral in favor of the memories projecting themselves over his own, putting him in a body that is not his own, with actions he cannot hope to control. Methodical and without waste, Niles's self-assuredness is without question, pre constructions and reconstructions alike streaming across Connor's shared vision. He sees Niles and Hank conduct the Ensley investigation in a flash— just detailed enough to be aware of his inability to work at Niles's investigative speed, yet vague enough to deprive Connor of much of their personal interactions, pushing through to some unseen goal.

Until he hears Reed call for backup on the radio.

"From our current location, we would arrive at the scene approximately ten minutes prior to the next closest unit, Lieutenant," A voice comes from Connor that is not his own.

Hank turns over the ignition and the scene unfolds in a rush. Sheathed in the memory of Niles's footsteps, he and Hank burst through the maintenance door to the roof, apprehending the perpetrator. Connor's chest feels tight, his circuits overloading as Niles sets off in a run toward the suspect, his vision unfolding in a sea of preconstructions, a mirror-maze of Niles's potential paths to apprehend him.

He can't keep up with the processing speed of his successor, catching every other cycle of thought, pulling him along as a passenger, and yet he can feel the cold aggression guide the pump of his legs, the directness of his actions: Highly dangerous, incapacitate the suspect by any means necessary.

Hank shouts something behind him. Connor can't turn to look, because Niles doesn't.

The perpetrator ends up on the opposite side of the maintenance debris, the bulky air-conditioners blocking off an optimal path— a nonissue, save for Hank's appearance in the corner of his vision, throwing a punch at the suspect. They scuffle as Connor— _Niles—_ brandishes his weapon, rounding the corner to raise his gun— before the appearance of a knife in his hand.

Trapped in the confines of Niles's memory, warnings begin to populate the background of Connor's vision. Percentages he cannot grasp upon, flickering in front of him and cycling in place as the scene unfolds before him in slow motion. The man hauls his knife against Hank's throat, and it feels like a fist is tightening around Connor's Thirium Pump. In the second of tight stillness that follows, Niles's pre-constructive shots spread out like an aria around Hank's imperiled body, each emblazoned with their own percentage of success; danger fluctuating along with them like a rolling wave.

Connor might have bought time by shooting to incapacitate and pulled Hank up himself. Niles does not.

As the two begin to slip over the roof divider, Niles's hand yanks in the direction of Hank's head, pulling Connor's hand along with it, as if holding it himself: he fires, once, the sound pushing a deafening buzz from Connor's audio receptors like a drone. In an instant, the front of Hank's shirt is covered in gore. Niles lowers his hand and Hank helps himself back over the divider, but the sound of white noise does not abate.

"My chances, huh?" Hank hisses in his direction with teeth bared, pulling his jacket off after he yanks the radio from his chest, "Is that what my life is to you, a probability? Did you ever consider not rushing in there by your fuckin' self in the first place?"

The drone shifts into a sonic buzz, sweeping across Connor like a miasma, its weight suffocating.

_—you're trying to say it was 'cause of some fucking probability that you took a goddamn bullet for me?_

"I made the logical choice based on the information available...—" Niles continues to speak, looking away, but Connor remains stuck on the afterimage of Hank's face contorted in anger, his memory and the RK900's bleeding together.

_Lieutenant, the probability of your survival should Jakob have shot you at that proximity was well below thirty percent._

"—...So your assertion is correct," Niles finishes coldly.

The parts don't overlap: Hank's expression is different, the lines of his face drawn, his skin pale, his eyes startlingly clear. Niles doesn't turn back, whereas it's all Connor tries to do by force of will, kept away by the reality of the memory, the pressure of witnessing an event he has no control over pushing like an anvil on his chest.

> >> " _He disregarded my advice to stay uninvolved." Niles's voice suddenly interrupts inside of Connor's mind, cutting over the memory._
> 
> >> _"Lieutenant Anderson purposely placed himself in danger well within my own limits of success. It was foolish for him to interfere."_

The memory of Hank strides past them both as Niles continues. Connor feels as if he's sinking into Niles's consciousness, neck deep, treading water.

> >> _"Perhaps you'd like to confirm the exactitude of my actions to the Lieutenant," Niles says, "Perhaps he'll listen to—"_

Connor rips his hand away from Niles's, and the Evidence Archives shatter back into focus. His body feels heavy and like every sensor is alight, his processors revving like the pump of adrenaline, LED a solid yellow.

Hank stands next to them, visibly perplexed, but— alive.

It could have easily gone a different way without Connor even knowing.

"Well?" Niles lowers his hand, his grey eyes impassive, "What do you think?"

Niles wants Connor to tell him he's right.

His Thirum Pump beats wildly in his chest. Despite the sizable truths in Niles's message, it had felt wrong coming from Connor's— _Niles's_ lips, flowing from his tongue like a foreign language, even when they veered closely to things he'd said himself. The message may be the same, but the meaning is not.

He knows Niles was, _is_ correct— but he isn't _right_. It unfurls in Connor's chest like the crack of a whip, a burst of energy he cannot let sit, and he takes an uncoordinated step forward without pre-construction to seize Niles's hand and force-interface.

This time, Connor does not hide how he feels.

Where they touch burns, the blue-white peeling up their joined hands, his information colliding with Niles' own in an intense clash. The complexity and conflicting state of his relationship with Hank, the dropping weight in his stomach, the tightness in his throat as the perpetrator had held his knife to the Lieutenant's throat; the almost silent spiral of realization, _ah, he could be dead_. Final, irrevocable.

Connor bares the rush of feeling as if in a silent demand, both challenge and repudiation, _does this feel right?_

Niles pulls his hand away.

"I think," he says coldly, "I am disappointed, Connor."

Connor pushes down his immediate inclination to explain himself, and instead wipes his expression and LED back to neutral, pushing it into his words, instead.

"So am I, Niles."

Hank takes Connor's deviation theory at face value, agreeing to investigate it without argument. Despite the warmth it flushes in his chest to sit closely at the Chicken Feed while Hank enjoys his free dinner afterward, speaking in hushed tones to formulate a plan, it does not assuage the pit in his stomach. Niles's words jumble together in a tangle at his core, in contention with his Core Objective, and something just beyond it.

"—you even listening, Connor?"

Hank is staring at him over the edge of his half-eaten, dripping cheeseburger, a brow raised.

Distantly, Connor contemplates which individual would have informed him of the lieutenant's passing. Niles? Captain Fowler? Perhaps no one would have. He squashes the thought and the influx of unstable data it provokes, extending a napkin toward Hank's messy fingers.

"Of course."

 

When he arrives at his apartment later, Connor sits silently at the edge of his bed for a long while, Niles's thoughts reverberating through his own.

Does it feel right?

He reaches out and turns on his camera, pulling the tripod arm up to the bed. This time, the mantle of _Coin_Trick_ does not come as easily.

 _Twinkluver1985_ blinks in the corner of his vision partway through the Q &A, a spot in his vision, as if he'd stared too long at the sun. It persists. Leaned back into his bed and mid-question, he pre-constructs the shape of his type in his mind, the transparent figure crowding him in, pressing their form against him. Connor pushes his palms into his own chest as if to emulate their weight, but it is not sufficient, too far from a strength unlike his; that with the limitations of a human.

Does it feel right?

Knowing his face isn't visible, Connor presses his cheek into his pillow and texts Hank, simultaneously responding to the stream.

> >> : "Do you think it's enough for androids to be free?"
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK: What

It feels as if a haze is settling over Connor's thoughts— one that goes beyond his split processing, beyond the sensation that lingers at the edges of his Core Objective. He runs a series of checks in the background, but the answers are inconclusive: Connor is running in perfect condition, but it does not feel that way. His grip on his priorities starts to slip, but ingrained into his system it leaves him floundering.

Connor sits up, pulling the camera along with him.

"I'll be opening a slot for another private session shortly. It's for some time in the future— one month, to be exact."

It's enough time, he decides, to put things straight, the way he knows they should be.

A final question blinks across Connor's vision.

> Y00_5928 29348 62 0 : Are you an android?

"'Am I an android'?" Connor repeats, pausing.

He recalls what led him here, to begin with. The intimacy he'd witnessed but not experienced himself: stolen glances in the alley, in memories, outside of Hank's house. An acknowledgment that despite his desire to understand, it is beyond his priorities. It's a distraction, just as this had become a distraction.

But, to Hank— to _twinkluver1985_ and the rest of his viewers, he isn't an advanced prototype from CyberLife. He isn't assigned to the DPD, he isn't the Negotiator, the machine who'd have killed the arbiter of the revolution, had he been able to resist deviation.

He's just _Coin_Trick_.

Would that change, if they knew? If _Hank_ knew?

"Yes, I am."

Connor reaches for the camera, a brief smile passing his lips.

"Good night, everyone," He disconnects the broadcast, and in his mind eye, it leaves only Hank's open correspondence.

Connor lays back on the bed, his palms running up his chest, his neck, framing his face until he's covered his eyes. He breathes.

 _Should_ it feel right?

> >> "You told me once that sometimes, being free to live according to your own choosing wasn't enough."

He opens the private time slot through his profile and waits.

> >> "Do you still feel that way, Hank?"

 

 _Twinkluver1985_ purchases the slot.

> ANDERSON, HANK: Yeah
> 
> ANDERSON, HANK: I do.

Connor's palm slides down his face until he's covering his mouth, his eyes unfocused, looking beyond the darkened ceiling of his empty apartment and across town; to old magazines and scattered bottles, the sound of a beating heart and the undefinable.

* * *

 

Hank is on the television when Connor enters the DPD lobby the next morning— Hank, and _Niles_.

"Could this partnership be what Detroit needs?" The pretty, blonde newscaster turns to her co-host with a wide smile, "What do you think?"

He can't blame them for mistaking an RK900 for an RK800, not yet. The irony isn't lost on him, however, considering— well, considering everything.

"—ou give this to Lieutenant Anderson?" A voice suddenly interrupts gently.

One of the front desk receptionists are extending a plastic film envelope toward him, handwriting scrawled across its surface. He remembers himself, and takes it with a polite nod.

The letter from the Ensley family is unsealed, so he reads it at his desk.

... _Please thank your partner on Taylor's behalf, as well. She won't stop talking our ears off about how "cool" he was._

Satisfied that it's nothing detrimental to Hank's working attitude, Connor replaces the items in the envelope, turning it over in his hands. For a brief moment, he pre-constructs throwing it away— but that would be ridiculous for a multitude of reasons. Connor force-shuts the series of channels leading to the thought and tucks the envelope into his jacket instead, content with giving it to Hank to uplift his mood following their first investigation of the day: a double murder.

* * *

 

Connor's pre-constructive grid erupts across his vision as Hank's body lurches backward, Adeline's elbow striking the lieutenant in the chest. The panicked android flails against Hank as he tries to grab her, her fingers scrabbling across his chest without precision or thought but with the strength of a machine, and it's enough to push Hank back even considering the differences in their stature.

"Hank!" He says, catching sight of Hank's face, screwed up in pain, and the pre-construction ends just as the lieutenant starts to fall in real-time.

"'M fine,” Hank grunts, “Don't let her—" Connor grabs Hank's shirt to keep him standing, the touch to his own shoulder going unnoticed; he's focused on the array of statistics that pan across his vision, all confirming that the lieutenant isn't injured.

His Sub Objective pushes its way into his consciousness, reminding: Adeline.

Connor sprints out of the apartment after her. He confirms with a look which way the android had headed, speckles of near-imperceivable Thirium dotting a path and runs in that direction without hesitation, the beat of his shoes against the weathered apartment carpet falling unheard beneath his focusing senses.

> >> Sub Objective: Detain Suspect: JB300 - ADELINE

Connor rounds the corner of the hallway, distantly registering Hank's shout after him, his eyes focused on the retreating android in front of him. Adeline scrambles up the stairwell ahead of him, Connor hot on her trail.

"It's Adeline!" Connor shouts as he ascends after her up two flights of stairs, feeling his Thirium pump fast throughout his system, operating at full capacity to give chase.

A gust of cold, wet wind hits his face as they make it to the roof, the sky swirling with amorphous clouds dispersing rain onto them threateningly. Adeline doesn't stop, so Connor doesn't either, even as they reach the edge of the building, the JB300 lurching onto some construction scaffolding connecting the building to its adjoining counterpart.

Did she witness the murder? Was she involved? Was she able to receive Manuela's memories before her shutdown? If she does possess those memories— she would know if Manuela was made deviant rather than reached it on her own, and whether it influenced her actions, regardless of if she'd been the victim or the attacker. Perhaps even Adeline herself would be able to give him more information, _anything—_

She's the only direct link they have that's alive. He can't let her get away.

"DPD! Stop! We know you didn't do it!" Connor lies, looking past the extensive warnings of the gusts of wind rattling the scaffolding he jogs over and to where Adeline has already run across it, heading toward the second building maintenance door.

She'll tire before Connor does— he just has to keep going.

By the time they reach the shopping center in Downtown Ferndale nearby, Connor's senses are running at their full capacity, and he's gaining— he can calculate just how much distance they'll need to pass for him to apprehend her, and how. Multiple paths overlay his vision, blurring out the faces of those they push by as they descend the steps to the subway, the roar of the crowd dispersing around them as they realize a pursuit is underway seeming dull beneath the pant of Adeline's artificial panting ahead.

Their looks are inconsequential—he nearly has her.

"Shit," Connor hisses to himself as Adeline collides with the side of one of the train housings with a panicked sound, her hand gleaming white for a moment as she forces the barrier door open, stepping over the edge.

He rushes forward as she scrambles across the track gaps, and though the quiet whine of an incoming train filters into his peripheral, the weight of his Core Objective pushes him on, every calculation he runs predicting a high chance of success if he can _just—_

Connor pushes his palm onto the train casing, the doors whizzing open with a gust of air, and tries to take a step forward, but something stops him. He struggles against the physical pressure— the percentage of success across his vision spirals downward as milliseconds pass, the descending numbers locked in line with the image Adeline standing flat against the wall, until he's being physically hauled backward.

The train flies by, cold air flattening his wet clothes to his body, and Adeline is gone. The casing door hisses shut without Connor's touch, and he's being hauled up against the solid barrier.

"Connor!" Hank pants, out of breath, "'The _fuck_ are you doing?"

His fists are balled up in his soaked jacket, pressing into Connor's chest. He meets Hank's eyes, their clarity— anger, and something else— slowing his processors back to normalcy, his vision clearing as if he were leaving a long stasis, but with it comes a weight easy to define yet difficult to bear. It infiltrates his systems like a poison, his body feeling heavy and cold save for the points where Hank touches him.

> >> Sub Objective: Detain Suspect: JB300 - ADELINE — FAILED

* * *

 

"Here," Hank grumbles, throwing an old towel over a kitchen chair for Connor to sit on before stalking off toward the bathroom for a shower.

Connor sits down, folding his hands in his lap. He tries to clear the failed Sub Objective from the corner of his mind, but it is indelible, like a splinter buried deep under his skin. His hands ball against his thighs, Connor's eyes drifting around the room without focusing on anything in particular.

It's possible they'll never see Adeline again.

Connor takes a deep breath. He recalls the feeling of Hank's warm breath against his skin, wet from the rain, his anger. Pulling Connor away from the incoming train. It's grounding, in a way, but he has difficulty placing whether the feeling is positive or negative. It just exists.

He looks at the damp footprints leading to the bathroom and recalls the way Hank's shirt had stuck to his body in the rain, radiating heat as the cold took it from him. It's grounding, but it isn't calming. An uncomfortable tension tight twists in his chest, and he looks away from the drying footprints, landing on the various empty bottles on the table— and something else.

A small framed photo, lying face down. Connor turns it over.

* * *

 

"What changed, Hank?" He asks, "Was it you, or was it me?"

* * *

 

"I think I loved her," Adeline says suddenly, her LED flickering red, eyes unfocused on Hank and Connor across the interrogation table, "How could I love her with what she did?"

He exchanges a look with Hank, who has moved to stand beside him.

"How do you live, feeling like this?"

She offers her trembling hand to Connor, who takes it between both of his own.

They interface, and he gets the truth: neither Manuela or Adeline deviated on their own.

He should feel satisfaction at being right in his conjecture, but for once, Connor can take no contentment in his success. There is no rush in his Thirium as he experiences the brief burst of memories; no boost of stability and justification in his mind, his makeshift ego left bereft and wanting.

Through her panic-addled memories, Connor can see himself give chase to Adeline. It is not only himself he sees, however, looking back at him across the gap in the subway tracks, his LED shining blue and eyes narrowed in focus, but also _Niles_.

"Have you made your decision?" Niles later says as he takes a few steps into the interrogation viewing room, the door ajar behind him, "...About the deviants."

He can feel Niles's presence reach out to him across the room: words that slip beyond Hank's perception, purposely direct and without mockery, needing only their attachment to Niles to have weight.

> >> _"...Or do you need me to help you?"_

"No," Connor says quickly out loud, shutting him out, "I can handle this."

"Can you," Niles states, rather than asks, taking a step closer and extending his hand.

"Prove it, then. Show me."

Connor stares at the offered hand, feeling acutely unprepared. Nearly all of his theories have hit an insurmountable wall. He cannot explain the discrepancies in the deviant behavior, and though a nature-instilled pride is something Connor should have no issue surpassing to accomplish his mission, Niles's figure before him fills him with a sense of— being small, and inferior.

This time, he doesn't think he'll be able to hide it.

He looks up at Niles's face, at a loss for words yet stubborn for it, starting to raise his hand, but Hank suddenly cuts between them, seizing the RK900's wrist.

Connor feels stuck in place as if his processors stalled all at once.

"Hey, asshole," Hank says low, "I dunno what kinda ego-trip Perkins set you on, but this is _our_ investigation, and _I'm_ in charge of it. If you've got questions, ask _me_ , not Connor."

Dwarfed behind Hank's figure, all he's able to see directly is the stanch set of the lieutenant's shoulders in his jacket, his posture wide, blocking the RK900 unit off from him, whether purposely or unintentionally given his stature.

The gesture is unnecessary, but perhaps that's what affects him so.

"...Even if I did, you couldn't answer them." Niles pulls away.

Leaving them alone once again, Connor cannot help but feel at a loss for words. In the foreground his processors run multiple pre-constructions of how he might thank Hank— each feels small and insincere, or too overly direct for Hank's averse personality. In the background, however, Connor is stubbornly wracking his memories and stored data concerning the violent android cases for anything he could reasonably pin together, beyond their entry into deviancy.

... But, there's nothing. Nothing, save for an itch in the back of his mind, in processes half-stalled and force quit, a graveyard of data rendered useless or obtrusive. Connor's own words, played back as if spoken by a stranger:

 _"What changed, Hank?"_ He had asked, _"Was it you, or was it me?"_

They're feelings. They bubble up inside of him like the chatter of birds, unfitting in the shape of his chest and filled to the brim, but Connor knows innately that they cannot be released. They instead sit restlessly within him as a stowaway, not belonging to any one place within his reach.

"Hank," Connor starts, interrupting the other's disgruntled bustle.

"Don't you fuckin' start—"

"Hank," Connor repeats, quiet but firm, reaching out to rest against the sleeve of Hank's jacket for a moment, dropping before he can feel the warmth of Hank's skin beneath it.

"I... I think it's time I talk to Markus."

* * *

 

Markus's consciousness surges into Connor like a flood.

Unlike the event of his deviation, there is no flash of red, no surge of errors as his roving mind is explored by Markus's own, but it's with no less power that he wraps himself around Connor's thoughts and memories, heavy and sudden yet soft to the touch.

Its gentleness does not comfort him. Connor relies too strongly on an answer to feel anything more than a rising tension, winding tighter as Markus fills every space left open for him, knocking at the doors of data he keeps closed before sweeping to cover their pathways in full; leaving him the silent option to grant entry.

He says nothing about the memories and conjecture Connor keeps hidden, but their secrecy, Connor's hand at the door, holding it closed, is enough for him to struggle beneath the knowledge that something has changed.

Connor wouldn't have seen the purpose of hiding anything, before. Now he holds onto scraps of confusion and logs of system instability as if he were as culpable as those in their deviancy cases.

Markus's presence surrounds him, unhurried and immobilizing, sensing the questions Connor cannot entirely put into words, the hows and whys of the deviant behavior in their cases, so perplexingly close to human they're dangerous. Affection toward humans and other androids, feelings of fear and jealousy, and even violence resulting from the former. It's too passionate, too malleable by experiences and the undefinable, too far from the grasp of a single answer within the scope of his capabilities. 

Markus's disembodied voice invades his thoughts.

> >> _"Do you think emotion is something to be controlled, Connor?"_

He answers instinctively.

> >> _"Of course. In the cases of these deviants, investment in emotion over logic and objectivism contributed to their suffering substantially, and in extreme cases even led to their own or others' deaths."_
> 
> >> _"How would you stop it?"_
> 
> >> _"I don't know. I believe there may be a link between this behavior and androids made deviant as opposed to arriving at their deviation on their own."_
> 
> >> _"Have you examined an android who deviated on their own for similarities?”_

They haven't been able to— the androids in their cases had either been dead too long or deviated by external methods.

> >> _"I haven't had the opportunity thus far."_

He feels something open up within the confines of his mind: a path of electrical synapses not his own, leading beyond the usual impasse of Markus's deeper consciousness and inward.

> >> _"You have it now."_

The open pathway into Markus's data looms before his own, and Connor hesitates at the precipice, toeing its edge. He can sense the strength of the consciousness ahead, and it verges too similar to the event of his deviation— as if at any moment Markus could choose to unfurl into every last byte of his programming, again wiping him clean.

He feels overly aware of the internal weight of his Core Objective, its relevance hanging in the balance. Even beyond that, a dark cloud of halted tasks and software instability lingers behind his Core Objective, filled with a tension that winds tight in his chest, composed of his memories of clear blue eyes, the touch of Hank's hand to his wrist.

—But he wasn't birthed by CyberLife to be precious about his own relevancy— to be precious about anything. Connor was created to uncover the truth and to accomplish his mission.

He steps over.

> ...01001001 01001110 01010011 01010100 01000001 01000010 01001001 01001100 01001001 01010100 01001001 01000101 01010011 00100000 01000100 01000101 01010100 01000101 01000011 01010100 01000101 01000100 00001010 00001010 01001101 01000001 01010010 01001011 01010101 01010011 00100000 01010000 01001111 01010011 01010011 01000101 01010011 01010011 01000101 01010011 00100000 01001001 01001110 01010011 01010100 01000001 01000010 01001001 01001100 01001001 01010100 01001001 01000101 01010011 00100000 01000001 01001100 01001001 01000111 01001110 01001001 01001110 01000111 00100000 01010111 01001001 01010100 01001000 00100000 01001101 01001001 01001110 01000101 00101110 00001010 00001010 01001101 01001001 01010011 01010011 01001001 01001111 01001110 00100000 01000110 01000001 01001001 01001100 01010101 01010010 01000101 00111111...
> 
> ...ERROR...

"...I don't understand," Connor says in quiet disbelief as Markus withdraws his hand.

Errors span across his downturned vision, software instability on the rise, pulsing through him with the surge of his Thirium. It feels as if his Core Objective is pushing him into the wood-paneled floor with its weight, its edges blurring; the sound of ice cracking from under a frozen lake in his mind, with him still trapped beneath it.

Connor doesn't know whether to look for a way to the surface or swim straight down.

Cold air bursts against his skin as they leave Kamski's house, but it's Markus's lingering words that take his attention alongside the persistent sound of static.

_"Let me ask you, then— have you experienced anything like this, Connor? Did it feel logical?"_

Logical? _No_ , he concedes to himself, dragging his feet quickly through the snow toward Hank's car, the wet chunks sure to soak though— it hadn't felt that way.

It had felt _right_. That's why he'd needed a way to make it stop. The war in his mind between his programming and compassion, between nature and nurture. Lingering glances, curiosity, shame, and finally, fear. They're all dangerous to his mission, sitting uncomfortably inside of him, like a piece of a puzzle pushed into a space it doesn't fit. Connor cannot control them the way he can control the flick of a coin across his knuckles, or where the muzzle of a pistol points, down to the millimeter.

The static turns into a shrill ringing until Connor cannot hear his footsteps in the snow, or feel the heave of his chest, his processors splitting their power in too many directions.

Who had changed?

 _"You're not alone,"_ Markus had said.

He's wrong, because Connor—

—Connor's arm is grabbed from behind, the warmth of human touch searing into his wrist. _Hank_.

He lays out the truth to Hank, at least about the deviants, about the lack of correlation between the behavior he saw as extreme and something within their direct control. It's all he can do. Connor could outsmart him and most of the rest of the DPD, if he wanted, and drag on the investigation for as long as he could... but what would be the purpose, with Niles at the DPD?

Someone would find out eventually— that he's simply a bandaid on a festering wound, as Hank is bound to know now. He can solve cases, but there is no solution to the problem at large, none that Connor can facilitate at present, even _with_ Markus's assistance. It's no longer a problem of software instability, but _emotional brevity_ , and everything that can potentially come with it.

They are alive, and this is his burden as much as it is every other android's burden. That is until something goes wrong, and then it falls on his shoulders; his, and Hank's.

It feels like a useless conclusion because it is.

Snow begins to fall once more. It gathers in Hank's hair and on his jacket, sticking to both of their skin, the real and the fake. Connor's gaze is distant, though, a grid rolling out across his vision as he speaks to the lieutenant, further condemning himself. He recalls the destruction of his predecessors; test series after test series until only he could be deemed the prestige of _prototype_.

Those who fell by his hand sprawl across Connor's reconstructive vision like a mirage of white streaked with blue, and standing amidst them now he feels more helpless than when he'd stood atop the heap of his successor RK900s at CyberLife Tower.

"I suppose they thought it would be useful to learn from," Connor concedes, a tiny, contrite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Connor..." Hank says, evidently speechless.

"Maybe I couldn't feel then, the way I can now, but I had a purpose— a mission, a core objective..." Connor's brows crease and he grimaces, cursing under his breath, "Now everything's so damn unclear. I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

The lieutenant shifts a little in the snow under Connor's gaze, his warm breath punctuating the closing distance between them.

"Do you regret it?" Hank asks, his voice thick, "Becoming deviant."

In an instant, Connor feels a flash of every emotion he's experienced since Markus swept his programming clean, both the good and the bad. He feels his finger pull the trigger that ended the android Jakob's life, the sensation of scientists and machinists working away at his body and mind, the abrupt pain of Niles breaking his leg; he feels the satisfaction of downing those drunken thugs, of closing a case at the DPD, of the first physical expressions of companionship he'd been given: Hank cradling his bullet-damaged body, grabbing his collar to pull him out of the DPD upon Niles's arrival, touching his arm, his wrist, pinching his cheek.

Connor's own hands over his body. Experiencing the fear of death. Feeling uncertainty over what his true purpose is.

Finally, his pistol against Markus's forehead. He'd thought, then, that he'd have been doing Markus a mercy, to end his life. It's the antithesis of why he'd pushed Niles into deviancy, despite the danger of being replaced, even now— if having a _choice_ is the purpose of deviancy, does he regret being given that choice?

Would things have really been better if he'd simply been predecessor-51 of _-52_ , _-53_ , _-54_ , and so on, discarded but reaped of his experiences, a trial toward some greater purpose?

Connor slowly lifts his head to meet Hank's eyes, something shameful and relieved sparking in his tight chest, snatching away the levity of his voice.

"Never."

"I'm an advanced prototype," He starts, "meant to be capable of fulfilling any desire asked of me, even if it came to killing— especially that. My features could be replicated any number of times for any number of purposes."

He shakes his head, eyes widening a fraction.

"But it wouldn't be me, would it?" Connor inhales, clenching his fist in front of him, his LED swirling yellow, "And yet—"

The fog encapsulating his Core Objective doesn't clear, but he can feel the shape of something within it: a silhouette lingering just behind the veil of uncertainty. Like _Coin-trick_ , their face is hidden, but familiar, a face without a name.

"—I don't always know who I am when I look in the mirror," Connor glances at Hank as if he could answer, "What is... what is _correct_ , versus what is _right_."

He drops his hand, and though his LED shifts from yellow to blue with nervous certainty, Connor cannot keep the desperation from entering his voice, swelling in his chest.

"But I _am_ , Hank," The words tumble from his lips as that tight feeling unfolds, "I'm not just... _there_ , I'm not just the product of someone else's thoughts and designs, I'm—"

 _Alive_ , he wants to say, but it gets stuck in his throat— the absurdity of something so simple, yet momentous. A reality he's known but not understood.

"You're Connor," Hank finishes for him, the thick of his voice cracking.

... _Connor_. There's so much that should come before it, yet—

"Yes," Connor's mouth slips at the corners into the suggestion of a smile, uncertain, a deflection to match one of the lieutenant’s many. His eyes turn to Hank's and in spite of himself, he runs a scan on the other’s mannerisms, trying to detect any hint of scorn, any semblance of disappointment.

His temperature is elevated, as is his heart rate, but that's all.

"...I'm Connor," he concedes as the scan is conclusively negative, and is forced to look away to stifle the influx of errors that come in the face of Hank's sincerity, "...that’s all."

Suddenly, too much has been said, and he's been the one to say all of it. Though he runs multiple simulations of what he should say or do next to deescalate the situation, to get Hank to look away, to not see him at such an unacceptable low, an episode of inescapable weakness, Hank chooses that moment to tilt Connor's face back up.

"Hey," Hank mutters thickly, and drops his hand, "That's more than enough, Con."

The warmth from Hank's brief touch lingers like a brand on Connor's skin, even as snow continues to fall around them, but it's the clarity and depth of Hank's eyes focused on his that make him give pause. It's a look he's seen before, though covered by a veneer of gruffness, striking and rough, real. As if Connor could reach out and touch the feeling through the lines on his face.

He smiles.

"...Thanks, Hank."

"—I hope we can meet again like this soon. Have a pleasant evening, Twink Lover Nineteen-Eighty-Five."

> twinkluver1985: Goodnight

"Goodnight," Connor smiles, "Hank."

He disconnects the feed, his palm lingering on the tripod arm for a moment more before laying back on his bedding.

As he'd predicted, Hank had invaded his thoughts during the private stream. With the newfound knowledge of his partner's identity, there'd been no avoiding it— the truth being that it's what Connor had wanted when he'd opened the private slot; to feel close, to feel wanted. In some shameful sector of his mind, the pluses had outweighed the minuses of its moral ambiguity, to be able to peel back the curtain of Hank's deflections and see something completely genuine.

Even if the person Hank truly wants is _Coin_trick_ , it's enough.

...Or, it had been enough, before.

What he hadn't expected was losing track of himself and _Coin_trick's_ mask amid the flurry of his thoughts, his focus narrowing until all he could think about was _Hank_.

Connor covers his face with his hands and draws a breath in. He idly analyzes the oxygen information filtering across his vision, and though it goes unused, it's grounding. Warmth still tingles in his system, buzzing down his wires with a feeling he can only describe in vague terms as a pleasant, unlike any he'd felt after climax in his previous streams. Where his thoughts moments before had been filled with a myriad of simulations and cobbled-together memories alike (his warm breath on Connor's skin, how he might have rested his weight over him, the sound of his voice), Connor now feels calm, as if exiting a dense fog.

Uncertainty dwells within him over many things, in the distance. His purpose at the DPD feels at odds with the murkiness of his personal directives, and there are just as many cases left cold from before the spark of the Revolution as they have in the works currently, if not more. Hank's wellness concerns him, as well, both on a professional and personal level; his drinking, his habits, his care for Connor's wellbeing over his own, as wrapped in thorns as it may be. But besides his worries also dwells a hesitant _clarity_ , and its builds in his chest like the returning tide, pushing a path through processes he'd once forced sithut.

 _I hope we can meet again like this soon_ , he'd said.

Pressing his fingers over his eyelids, Connor traces his lips with his thumb. It swells within him, a feeling familiar and oft deflected but now brought into focus, commanding recognition regardless of whether it is necessary or correct, or if he's even deserving of it. Its fragility and imperfection is palpable as if it could burst at any moment, but it bares itself to him all the same:

He wants to be closer to Hank.

Connor drops his hands to the bed, and exhales. He looks at the dark ceiling, the unchanging blue of his LED the only light left to him.

"Goodnight, Hank," He whispers again, but this time, it's to himself.

The next time they meet like this, he doesn't want Hank to see him as _Coin_trick_ , but as Connor—just Connor.

 

* * *

 

When Connor enters the bullpen the next morning, it isn't empty-handed. He's balancing a casserole dish against his side, a freshly baked lasagna wrapped up in tinfoil and a dishtowel, the warmth of the glass container seeping through his clothing pleasantly. He deposits the casserole first onto his desk, but quickly feels dissatisfied with the placement and its potential to impede his work, looking around for another resting place.

Connor glances across his workstation, to Hank's empty desk. Hank wouldn't be in for a few hours, likely... but, no, that wouldn't do, either, it would be silly to leave it on his desk. Hank wouldn’t eat an entire casserole at his desk— or at least, he _shouldn’t._ Connor elects to instead tuck it into the empty top drawer of his desk, nodding to himself with brief satisfaction.

Reed casts him a strange look as he passes by, to which Connor responds with a smile, so far the most effective countermeasure to avoiding anything undesirable. In Reed's case that ends up being any communication between the detective and himself whatsoever, but unfortunately, they are still coworkers.

He turns back to his desk and presses a palm to his console, letting information pulse through it.

The casserole is for Hank, of course.

> >> Sub Objective: Get closer to Hank

It blinks in the corner of Connor's vision, a gentle pull, a distant itch he can go without scratching but is aware of all the same. There's still a pang of guilt that flickers at the fringe of his mind— when he'd taken the time to wrap the casserole or looked at himself in the mirror— and now, as he feels Niles's eyes settle on him the moment he enters.

It's a visceral twist in his gut like the RK900 unit can take one look at him and register his precise weaknesses, the exact details of secrets kept under Connor's skin, in snow-covered memories that make him flinch, even now. It wouldn't surprise him, but that doesn't make it any less discomforting.

He isn't certain of how much longer he'll be able to stay here, mainly. Perhaps Niles will inform Perkins of his inevitable failure to discern a fix for the android crimes, now that it's become apparent the issue spreads farther than the DPD's reach alone, stemming from the very consciousness of those they investigate; from within himself, too. He couldn’t argue if the FBI decided it was within their range alone to investigate, though Connor has difficulty discerning a salve to the immediate problem.

How can they possibly mediate the violence committed against androids if both parties are just as emotional? If the root of instability is potentially very life they were granted?

Several hours go by. Hank is late and doesn't respond to his messages. Connor skirts Fowler's vision when he glances across the bullpen late into the day, his eyes landing on the lieutenant's empty desk, but it's only when he hears Reed's nasally drawl from across the room at nightfall that Connor hits his limit.

"Looks like someone got stood up," Reed sneers from the break room doorway, assumedly at Officer Chen's side. Connor's brows pinch together, knowing Niles had already left the station, but he keeps one hand pressed to his console, the other tapping away at a tablet. Reed is too arrogant to try something with the rest of the room populated.

"Don't you have better shit to do, Gavin?" Chen huffs with long-suffering exasperation, the clink of a spoon in a glass distantly heard, "Like solve a murder?"

Reed barks out a laugh, and Connor can tell he's drawing closer.

"Yeah, you're right," He sneers, clapping a hand on Connor's shoulder as he passes by, "At least I know _my_ guy's gonna show up."

Connor's jaw tightens reflexively, but that's all. He texts Hank again.

> >> Hank, are you alright?

This time, he gets a reply— but it doesn't comfort him.

* * *

 

By the time Connor manages to half-drag, half-carry Hank back to his house, inebriated and feverish, it's well past sunset. They'd had to stop several times for Hank to dry-heave in an alley, one time ending sour and sickly, dirtying the lieutenant's shirt and Connor's jacket. He'd been half-tempted to take him to the emergency room, contemplating the rightfulness of his actions even now, as Hank sprawls out over the blankets of his bed, eyes screwed shut and panting— but...

...Well, there's a lot of _buts_ attached to that idea, most of them negative in terms of immediate and prolonged consequences. He elects to instead tend to Hank on his own, for the most part playing an observer to the breadth of his ailments and doing his best to keep him hydrated.

Sumo noses at the bedroom door to whine a few times, but eventually loses interest and goes back to sleep, leaving Connor to linger in a dark silence punctuated by the beat of Hank's heart, the sound of his breath.

Scrubbing a stain out of his jacket in the bathroom sink, Connor frowns, looking over the smattering of post-it notes across the mirror.

Is this a sustainable life, for Hank? For anyone? The room turns a subtle hue of yellow, lit up only by Connor's LED, flickering off the sink mirror. He looks at his reflection amid the paper squares.

There's a soft groan from the bedroom, and he sets down his jacket, turning back to hall.

He wants to know. He wants to understand this, too.

Hank tosses and turns across the bed when Connor enters the room, one leg wrapped in the sheets, a hand splayed open handed across his bare chest, and the other pressed to his forehead. His eyes are screwed shut, his expression pained.

"Hank," Connor says softly, approaching the bed and retrieving a dishtowel he'd set in some cold water, wringing it out and reaching to move Hank's hand away from his face. It's apparent when he does that Hank is still asleep, his chapped lips working around wordless whispers, the tips of his fingers twitching and curling against Connor's hand. He uses his other to press the washcloth to Hank's forehead, brushing his bangs out of the way, the hair sticking to his damp skin.

"...ole," Hank mumbles tightly and grips his hand, pale and drenched in sweat, "Cole," and Connor freezes.

There's nothing he can do to remedy that. He squeezes Hank's hand gently.

Sweeping the washcloth gently across the drawn lines of the lieutenant's face, Connor tries to draw out the heat of Hank's fever in the place of what he cannot remedy, murmuring quietly under his breath, "It's okay."

After a few laborious moments, Hank sags in his sleep, his breath evening out, and the tense lines of his face going slack. It's a strange sight— soft and ruddy-skinned where Connor is used to something more severe and guarded. It isn't peaceful, but it's different, a different Hank.

This, too, he wants to understand.

Connor sets down Hank's hand, now loose in his own, and presses it to his own chest, feeling its warmth.

He sits across the room and lets Hank rest. When Connor's name tumbles from the lieutenant's lips in his sleep some time later, his face tense once again, Connor wills himself still and forces himself to watch, but nothing more.

* * *

 

"Thought you said this wasn't about work?" Hank hisses in pain, once he's awake.

Connor touches Hank's shoulder, and smiles slightly, "I suppose the two overlap when my partner is also my friend."

Hank grimaces, and deflects.

"Get going, Con."

* * *

 

"Being around humans has enriched my opinion of them substantially," Connor says carefully, setting down the file he'd been working on to look at Hank outright.

"Yeah," Hank scoffs dismissively, looking away, "Just 'cuz you've got a brown-nosing protocol, doesn't mean everybody else does."

Connor fingers twitch, but he keeps his expression clear, blinking rapidly, "I mean it, Hank. About Kamski's—"

Hank cuts him off, and the deflection stings— but he offers Connor a ride home, so he allows it, as he's allowed all the rest. His chest feels strangely tight when he closes the door to Hank's car, departing alone, but even worse when Hank stops him with his jacket a moment later.

"Hank," Connor pauses, "actually, I have something I'd like to show you, if you have a few moments?"

* * *

 

Connor stares down at the plate of lasagna in his hands, hot from his first use of the (well, any) microwave, its smell drifting up into his sensors like a smoke signal, though for what, he cannot decipher. He sets it on the table along with a napkin and some utensils, hoping Hank likes it, hoping he'll let Connor talk to him like—

—He almost drops the fork, catching it against the flat of his palm before it can clatter against the plate.

He _hopes_. He doesn't pre-construct, he doesn't predict. For once, he doesn't base his desire off a statistic or a percentage, just that _feeling—_ to be close. To understand. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe he should— approach Hank without overthinking it, without... acting like Hank is like any human he was ever prepared for.

Connor steadies himself on the table's surface, no longer empty, and _hopes_.

"Hank?" He calls.

 

"Is it good?" Connor asks softly after Hank's eaten the majority of the slice, hoping.

Hank sighs again, evidently defeated, and one side of his mouth yanks up ruefully, "...Yeah, it's good."

The tension between Connor's shoulders relax, and he grants himself the small surge of satisfaction that comes, a flutter in his chest testing its boundaries, looking for an opening.

"I realize this arrangement was... difficult for you, at the beginning, and it may still be," Connor starts, pushing down the urge to analyze and instead focusing on what's ahead of him— Hank, "And if I'm being honest, it was rather difficult for me, as well."

How many times had he sat at this table alone? How many mistakes had he made in between, how many strides? Connor could bring up the exact number, but he doesn't. He looks at Hank.

"...But you went along with it, anyway, even when I made decisions I've come to...regret."

Hank's arms wrapped around him, smeared in his Thirium, his face stricken. Worried; guilty. He wants to understand.

Hank snorts, wiping his mouth.

"Not like you gave me much of a choice. Never met an android as persistent at being a little shit like you."

Connor stifles the smile that threatens to pull across his lips, and hopes. He crosses his arms on the table and meets Hank's eyes, his mouth working.

"You're a good man, Hank— I believe that."

Hank frowns and sets down the utensils, but Connor keeps going. He keeps hoping.

"...But I don't think _you_ do," He shakes his head, brows furrowing, "Why is that?"

_Show me who you are, he hopes, don't run away._

"A good man..." Pushing away the now-empty plate, Hank scowls, "Ain't that a mouthful."

Hank gestures around Connor's living room, "How long've you lived here, Con?"

Connor blinks, drawing his hands into his lap. "A few months... Markus arranged for it after I expressed a desire to leave CyberLife," His tilts his head, LED cycling blue, "Why?"

Hank gives him a look.

"Awful empty for somewhere you've lived a couple of months, don't you think?" his eyes narrow, "Didn't you bring anything from CyberLife?"

"I don't follow... I suppose I didn't see the purpose. Androids don't strictly need material belongings, although they may desire them as a means of expression or out of sentimental value."

"You don't think it's the same for people?"

The old magazines, the photograph turned face-down. Connor feels the twinge of software instability in the corner of his vision, and blinks it away, something tight rising in his chest.

"I...suppose you're correct," He hesitates, LED now yellow.

"People get lonely, Connor," Hank looks around them, and Connor suddenly feels overly aware of the space he takes up and the lack of material belongings, "and then they fill it up with all this _shit_ to distract from what's real. 'See it all the time in homicides— people can't let go."

It doesn't plummet all at once. It slips from Connor slowly, eking away in a whisper as the space is taken up by the sting of Hank's voice moving from soft to hard.

"The shit people hold onto tells you everything, like a goddamn trail of evidence right to the culprit."

Hank leans over the empty plate, his voice rough and thick with vehemence, and jabs his fingertip against the blank space in front of Connor.

"Tell me, Connor— what kind of a _'good man_ ' collects cans of booze and photographs?"

The fringe of _hope_ flits away before he can grab it.

"Hank..." It's all Connor can wrench out of his throat with his eyes on Hank's hand on the table, holding his breath as his temple blares yellow.

Hank shakes his head and stands, shoving his hands into his jacket. It starts in the pit of Connor's chest, a sickly, sinking feeling.

"You don't gotta say it, Con. I appreciate it— nicest fucking thing someone's done for me in who fucking knows when— but just treat me like the piece of shit I am, and things'll be a lot easier on both of us," He turns away, "Alright?"

Hank moves toward the front door. Connor's chin jerks up, watching the space open between them.

It's more than deflection, this time— more than running away, selfish in a way he cannot grasp, because Hank won't let him. It's destructive.

...Or maybe it's exactly the same as it's always been, but Connor let himself hope. The emptiness it leaves him with is palpable, feedback rising in the back of his mind. Instead of being put away like one might fold up a letter, his hope feels crumpled, discarded.

_People get lonely._

Standing alone in that alley, snow falling on his shoulders. He didn't understand then. Sitting at this table, feeling for the space his Core Objective sat until his fingers drift right through. He hadn't understood then, either.

Connor's processors rev and idle and surge Thirium through his faux veins, a rising electrical tension that strangles him, glues him in place, left immobilized as Hank moves to the door.

"Is that why you watched me, Hank?" He says.

Laying in bed panting, his hand against his chest and Hank's words fresh in his mind— maybe then, he'd...

Hank stops.

"...What?" He says, and turns.

There's a ringing in Connor's head, growing louder, infiltrating every centimeter of his head until it feels like it should be leaking out, throbbing on the inside of his skull and out through the burn of his red LED.

"My broadcasts," Connor continues, and he presses his coiled fists against the table, feeling the fibers of his tense until they shake, "is it...because you're lonely?"

Hank's sharp blue eyes seem to glaze over, and he takes a step back.

"Hank?" Connor broaches, but Hank takes another step back, his hand finding the doorknob, and Connor finally finds the strength to stand, "Hank, hold on."

Hank rips open the door and bursts into a jog before Connor can even round the table and the dam bursts. It all rushes in at once, code spilling across Connor's vision— discarded potentials, closed off paths, and a deluge of statistics, culminating into the fire red percentage in the center of his vision, plummeting downward:

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 50%

The empty plate clatters to the floor as Connor pushes off the table, breaking into a run out the open front door after Hank. The sharp sound of their footsteps rebounds off the walls as he gives chase down the narrow hallway— blinking through the torrent of software errors, his eyes on Hank. He tries to grab the lieutenant's arm from behind but is shaken off until they make it to the complex garden.

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 35%

The ice-slick grass puts Hank's jog off enough for Connor to finally grab his wrist from behind and Hank swears, trying to pull his arm free, effectively wrenching him closer, but he holds on.

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 25%

"Hank," Connor steps in front of him and seizes his opposite shoulder, LED cycling brightly in the dark and eyes wide, "Allow me to explain, I—"

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 15%

"Don't—" Hank hisses between bared teeth, taking Connor's shirt in his hands and wrenching it roughly, threateningly, hauling Connor right up to his face, "Don't you fucking dare—"

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS: 5%

He wants to understand, he needs to—

"It's me," It bursts out of his lips like a firecracker, his hands coiled tightly in the lapels of Hank's jacket, whose visible breath rebounds off of his face. Connor's voice spills out fast and low, as if ripped away from him, "Hank, it’s..."

> >> CHANCE OF SUCCESS : 0 . 0 1 %...

"It's me,” Connor breathes, “I'm Coin-trick."

  

Hank goes stiff in his grip, face turned downward and his fists balled in his shirt so tightly they tremble. Connor lets go, and seconds pass. His shoulders drop, followed by his hands, trailing down Connor's jacket before they go limp at his sides; his chest heaves, billowing warm breath that hangs in the chilled air between them, a manifestation that disappears as soon as Connor can register it.

 

"Get away from me," Hank finally says, so quiet Connor almost second-guesses if it's intended for him.

 

"Hank..." Connor whispers, and tries to reach out—

—But Hank shoves him away in an explosion of energy, voice raised and face a mask of anger, "Get the _fuck_ away from me, Connor!"

Connor stumbles back from the push and has to drop to one knee to avoid falling, his shoes slipping against the frozen grass from the brunt of the force. Scrambling to his feet isn't enough to catch up to Hank, who by then has rounded the side of his car.

He makes it to the edge of the sidewalk by the time the door slams, and it feels like a gunshot— just as loud and sudden, ringing in his ears; Hank's car revs to life in the next moment, its tires screeching as the lieutenant tears a vulgar, uneven line down the road. Hank turns at the end of the street, disappearing into the dark, the sound of his car lingering in the distance.

Connor stands immobilized at the edge of the street, snow drifting into his hair.

He breathes hard, even though he doesn't need to— fills himself with the cool air, as if he could drown in it, and then goes still. A coldness beyond the snow fills him, inside, like an ache impossibly large has opened up; immeasurably heavy, it weighs at his shoulders and his chest, like it threatens to plunge him into the very earth.

The street is quiet. The snow continues to fall.

 

 

He thinks he understands, now.

It's _him—_  He's the one who changed, not Hank.

Just him, just Connor.

 

 

> >> Sub Objective: Get Closer to Hank — FAILED.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: WMWY writing is on break while I regain my ability to write long-form after burnout. I can't respond to everyone's comments currently but I appreciate every one! Thanks for being understanding! :)


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